


ghosts that we knew

by dothraki_shieldmaiden



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, DCBB 2020, Dean/Cas Big Bang 2020 (Supernatural), Demonic Possession, Gentle Dom Castiel (Supernatural), Ghost Sex, Ghost!Castiel, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Hunter Castiel (Supernatural), Hunter Dean Winchester, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Light BDSM, M/M, Masturbation, Possession, Pre-Canon, Sex Toys, Stanford Student Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:47:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 89,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27369028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dothraki_shieldmaiden/pseuds/dothraki_shieldmaiden
Summary: Dean can’t help it. Castiel’s laugh is infectious, washing over him and sweeping him up in its tide. His throat and stomach ache with the feel of it, unfamiliar muscles worked past their endurance. He hasn’t laughed like this in weeks, maybe years.Cas doesn’t stop laughing, and Dean relishes it. It’s such a good sound, deep and throaty. It rumbles over him the same way that Baby’s engine purrs, to where he can almost feel it in his gut. Dean’s giddy, the kind of happy that hunters don’t get to feel, and if it weren’t for the ceiling, he thinks he might float away. Cas’ eyes crinkle when he laughs, and his smile goes wide and gummy. He’s so brilliant, so alive—But you’re dead, Dean thinks helplessly. But you’re dead.---Castiel Novak is one of the best hunters Dean Winchester has ever worked with. He's witty, whip-smart, and has enough knowledge about the supernatural to rival an encyclopedia. He's got humor dry enough to put the Sahara to shame and he's pretty easy on the eyes as well. All in all, he's the best partner Dean could have hoped for.Too bad he's dead.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 217
Kudos: 640
Collections: DCBB 2020, Multi-Chapters, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. turn south from my disgrace

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is! My contribution to this year's DCBB. I've been tossing this idea over in my head for almost two years and with the advent of quarantine, I finally found enough time to give it justice. 
> 
> I have to thank my amazing artist [CrzyDemona](https://crzydemona.tumblr.com/), who did the lovely pieces you see here and who is just a generally cool person. Thanks for taking my vague directions of "make it scary but also horny" and turning it into something amazing. 
> 
> And a billion and a half thanks go to my beta [FriendofCarlotta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendofCarlotta/pseuds/FriendofCarlotta). She poked and prodded and suggested and turned this fic from a stumbling Bambi and into a majestic stag of a fic. If this fic is any good at all, it's in part due to her. It goes without saying that any errors you see belong to me and me alone. 
> 
> Come check me out on tumblr at [dothwrites](https://dothwrites.tumblr.com/). I yell and scream about anything and nothing.

[View post on imgur.com](https://imgur.com/Xoy8nUj)

~*~*~*~*~*~*

_But you saw no fault, no cracks in my heart_  
_And you knelt beside my hope torn apart_  
_But the ghosts that we knew will flicker from you_  
_And we'll live a long life_  
_So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light_  
_'Cause oh that gave me such a fright_  
_But I will hold as long as you like_  
_Just promise me we'll be alright_

~*~*~*~*~*~*

**prologue**

There’s too much blood. 

That fact runs, immutable, through Castiel’s mind as he forces his body forward, into lurching, desperate steps. 

Ever since he began hunting, he knew his life was going to end like this: bleeding, running, alone. That knowledge doesn't keep Castiel from trying to survive, even now. He holds his hand to his side in an attempt to keep the blood in, but every breath sends more pumping out of him. His hand is wet and sticky and disturbingly numb. White spots dance at the edges of his vision. His breath tears out of his throat in short, ragged pants. Every time his right foot hits the ground, pain rockets through his body; his right ankle is at least badly sprained, if not broken. But he can’t stop. 

If he stops, they’ll catch him. 

Terror beats through his blood as he hears the faint sounds of pursuit from behind. He lost count of how many demons were in the graveyard. Five? Ten? Certainly more than he could ever hope to take on by himself. More demons than he’d ever heard of, gathered in one spot, and Castiel was the poor son of a bitch who stumbled upon them. 

He’d been an arrogant idiot, walking into a possible demonic hunt armed with nothing more than a container of salt, a half-full flask of holy water, and a recorded exorcism on his phone. All of his supplies were depleted within seconds, and his phone had been cracked beyond help as he’d gotten slammed into the ground. All that was left after that was the pure, animal need for escape. Castiel has never run from a fight, but now he’s fleeing. Five years of hunting, and he’s never been truly afraid for his life until now. 

“Where are you, little hunter?” 

Their voices call after him, mocking and gleeful. Castiel doesn’t doubt for a second that they know exactly where he is. He’s not exactly stealthy in his retreat. There’s no guile or cunning left in him, only the mindless need to put as much distance between them and him. 

“Don’t run far, hunter, we still need you!” 

A helpless sob rips from Castiel’s throat. He pours all of himself into his escape, and it’s still not enough. 

He’s going to die in this graveyard. 

If only he’d listened to Gabriel when his brother told him to wait for backup. If only he’d taken that salt and burn down in Duluth. If only he’d stayed in school instead of following Gabriel’s path. If only. If only. 

If only he were anywhere but here, in a tiny, nameless graveyard, choked on fear and running like an animal. 

He’d thought he could handle this hunt on his own. Gabriel had thought differently and ordered him to wait. But Castiel had been inflated on his own hubris and more than a little pissed at his brother’s constant mother-henning. Besides, the case had sounded simple on paper: one demon, hardly worth an exorcism. 

In his hubris, Castiel delivered himself into the demons’ trap, a perfect victim. 

He looks over his shoulder to try and spy out any pursuers. He finds none, until he turns around. 

“There you are, little hunter.” A smile twists the woman’s pretty face into something monstrous. Her fingers grab at his shoulders in a vicious claw. Castiel makes a pathetic struggle for freedom, all to no avail. “It was rude of you to leave without saying goodbye.” 

“Fuck you,” Castiel pants. 

He doesn’t know the meaning of half the sigils the demon carved into his body. He lost count of the shape and design of them halfway through. He knows that they bode nothing good. When they were cut into his flesh, he’d harbored a faint hope of escaping long enough to research them. Now, caught as he is, the only thing he can hope for is to die before the demons have a chance to enact whatever plan they’ve concocted. 

The demon's lips turn down in an exaggerated frown. “Very rude.” She drags her fingers over the flayed edges of one of his wounds, drawing a cry of agony out of his throat. “It’s time you came with us.” 

“Go back to hell,” Castiel spits, before whispering in a rush, _“Omnis espiritus mundi—"_

The demon snarls, but she loosens her grip, which is what Castiel wanted. He reels back, and makes for freedom yet again. 

Spots fly in front of his eyes. Each breath turns into a struggle as more and more blood flows from his wounds. Survival becomes a distant illusion: beloved and wondrous, but no longer realistic. 

“You’ll pay for that,” the demon snarls. Castiel has just enough time to tense before his feet leave the ground. Air rushes by his face, drawing tears from his eyes. His heart rises to his throat. Not even his body is within his control. 

_I’m sorry_ , he thinks helplessly. _Gabriel… I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…_

He sees the tree, large and imposing, in front of him just a second before he’s flung headfirst into it. 

His skull strikes the trunk with a sick, hollow thunk. Pain explodes from the point of contact, white-hot and consuming. He thinks he might be screaming; he’s not certain. Agony takes him over, until it’s all that he is. 

Castiel hits the ground. 

There is light, but only for a second. Castiel’s eyes close, shutting out the sight of the stars. 

Darkness. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*

**two months later**

Pulling into Bobby’s salvage yard is probably the closest Dean Winchester will ever get to a homecoming. He drives the Impala past the husks of rusting cars, navigating the labyrinth of Bobby’s organized chaos, until he reaches the house. There’s just enough space in front for the Impala, and Dean tries not to feel pleased by that. Tries not to feel like he has a place here. 

Bobby’s might be the closest thing he has to a home, but it’s not home. Dean hasn’t had one of those since he was four. 

He pushes those thoughts aside as he gets out of the car and shakes out the stiffness of the day’s drive. He’s only twenty-five; he shouldn’t be this sore from doing basically nothing, but hunting takes a toll on the body. He winces as his knee pops, followed by several of his vertebrae shifting back into alignment. At this rate, if he makes it to forty with all his original joints, it’ll be a goddamn miracle. 

(At this rate, if he makes it to forty, it’ll be a goddamn miracle.)

He grabs the bottle of Johnny Walker Blue and makes his way to Bobby’s house. He knocks on the door, but barely waits another second before he shouts, “Bobby! You home?”

From inside, he hears rustling and, within short order, Bobby yanks the door open. He looks disgruntled, but Dean thinks he might be hiding a smile in his beard. 

“What the hell, boy? At least give me time to get to the damn door,” Bobby grouses, before stepping aside so Dean can enter. As he passes, Dean gets a few rough pats on his shoulder. 

“Good to see you,” Bobby says, which is as good as a hug. “You don’t call near as much as you should.” 

“Quit your bitching,” Dean mutters, more out of obligation than anything else. He and Bobby have this same fight every time he stops by. Underneath his gruff demeanor, Bobby moonlights as a grandma. Though he’s not exactly wrong. Dean probably could call more. “I brought you a present.” 

Dean settles onto Bobby’s couch without being invited, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. Bobby grunts at him, disapproval in every line of his face, but he doesn’t say anything as he settles behind his desk. Dean pours a few fingers for both of them, and passes Bobby his glass. 

“You can try and buy your way out, but it ain’t gonna stop me complaining,” Bobby warns, even as he accepts the glass from Dean. “If you’re hunting on your own, you need to call more than once every blue moon. You better put me on speed dial, kid.” 

“You know, no one likes a clingy prom date, Bobby,” Dean says, taking a slow swallow. Normally, he favors cheap and potent, but he does have to admit that there’s an appeal to the expensive stuff. 

“Uh huh,” Bobby says. Over the rim of his glass, his eyes are watchful. “You heard from your daddy lately?” 

Dean tries to hide his flush in another sip. Trust Bobby to fight fire with fire, asking about Dad like he doesn’t know that Dean tries one of John’s numbers at least every other day. 

It’s been about a year and a half since John Winchester tossed him the keys to the Impala and said, “Keep her running,” before he took off in his truck. At the time, Dean was stupid enough to see it as a reward. It was only after the first dozen or so unanswered calls that he realized it was a dismissal. 

“Nah, he’s busy.” Dean says the words casually, like it doesn’t hurt like hell that his own father didn’t want him around anymore. 

First Mom, then Sam, now Dad… The only person who’s bothered sticking around is Bobby, and that’s just because he doesn’t give a good goddamn about much of anything. No doubt, if he put a little effort in, Dean could turn the tried and true Winchester charm on Bobby and have him packing up within a week or so, if he really wanted. 

“What about your brother?” 

A small curl of anger unwinds in Dean’s chest. Partially at Bobby for asking the question, partially at Sam for being selfish, but mostly at himself for not realizing that he was dead weight all those years ago. 

“You know Sammy.” Dean finishes off his drink and pours another as he forces a lightness he doesn't feel into his voice. “He’s off at Stanford, living the college dream. Getting all that California sunshine, far away from the ghoulies and beasties.” 

He’d been stupid and drunk enough to call Sam once. From the second Sam picked up, Dean knew it had been a bad idea. In the background were clear noises of a party: the clinking of glasses, laughter, shitty pop music. Someone called for shots. 

That was bad enough, the knowledge of mirth outside Dean’s own little self-imposed cocoon of misery, but not as bad as the disinterested kindness of Sam’s voice when he asked how Dean was doing. It reminded him of how people inquired after distant relations, with obligation instead of interest. 

Dean mumbled something about how he had to go, and hung up over Sam’s protest. Sam never called back, and Dean never again made the mistake of calling. 

Every so often, a gig will take him to the realm of northern California (not that often; apparently, ghosts and monsters have decided that the property values there are too outrageous even for them), and he’ll make a drive past Stanford. It’s not that hard for him to sneak onto the campus. Hell, a co-ed even tried to ask him out once, before Dean made it abundantly clear how uninterested he was. 

Sam is a whole head taller than most, and easy to pick out in a crowd. One time, Dean stood hidden behind some masterfully landscaped foliage as his brother passed barely thirty feet away from him, completely unsuspecting.

After each trip, Dean will crawl to the nearest bar and drink away the aching feeling in his heart. It’s an unsustainable sort of hobby, but one he can’t cut out from his life. 

“What about you?” Dean settles back into the couch, raising an eyebrow as he looks around the mess of Bobby’s living room. If possible, there are even more books here than the last time he visited, about six months ago. “Was there a yard sale or something?” 

Bobby doesn’t bother to look offended. “I don’t hear you complaining when these books manage to save your damn fool ass.” 

“Who said I was complaining? Long as I don’t have to organize any of this shit…” Dean’s voice trails off at the look in Bobby’s eyes. “Aw, Bobby, come on! I just got off the road, three salt and burns in a row! Give me a break!” 

“Oh, I’m sorry, princess, are you afraid you’re going to break a nail if you do some heavy lifting?” Bobby’s voice is thick with sarcasm. “It ain’t like you have to read any of this. Besides, you wanna stay here rent free and eat me out of house and home, you’d better do something to earn your keep.” 

“Whatever,” Dean grumbles. He could fight more, but it’ll end the same way: he’ll still help Bobby organize, except if he bitches, he comes off as an asshole. Little though he might want to admit it, Dean can still acknowledge the fact that he owes Bobby better than that, because the guy’s saved his ass more times than he can count. Not to mention that small thing where he damn near raised Dean and Sam, without a word of complaint. Sometimes, Dean would lie awake at night and wish Bobby could have been their father, instead of Dad. He hated himself for the thought, but there it was, plain as day. 

“I’ll organize your damn shelves or whatever. Long as it keeps you from bitching, it’s a win in my book.” 

“All right then.” Bobby stands up from his desk. He dumps a pile of books in Dean’s lap, knocking the wind out of him. “You can start with these.” 

\---

Three hours later, Dean wishes that maybe he’d fought a bit harder. 

The work isn’t difficult; it’s just that there’s so much of it, and Bobby is an impossible taskmaster. He doesn’t seem to notice the thousands of books Dean files away properly, according to his archaic and mystifying cataloging rules, but he sure as hell notices when Dean puts one measly scroll in the wrong place. 

“What’s the big fucking deal?” Dean finally snaps, massaging at his lower back. There’s a twinge, which can be attributed to bending over all day looking for _just_ the right spot for a particular book, a long car drive, and his job of getting repeatedly smacked around like a damn piñata. “It’s close to where you want it. Ain’t like anyone other than you is going to notice it anyway.” 

“I’ll tell you what the big fucking deal is,” Bobby grumps, bumping Dean aside to push the scroll a few millimeters to the left. “The next time you call me with your panties in a bunch, wanting to know the exact way to kill something because you were too damn foolish to look it up beforehand, and I can’t find what I’m looking for because you put it in the wrong spot, that’s the big fucking deal.” 

Dean glowers, but doesn’t have a response. Bobby glowers right back at him, and he has the advantage of a pretty prodigious beard as well as a sweat-stained trucker’s cap. Dean looks away first. 

“Gotta give you some kind of excitement, old man,” he mutters, by way of apology. Bobby snorts, which is his way of accepting it. 

Meanwhile, Dean’s attention is drawn to a shoebox filled with miscellaneous debris. There’s a generic protection hexbag, a few salt rounds, a Zippo lighter, as well as a leather-bound journal and a thick leather cuff. 

Dean flips through the journal with a small amount of interest. It’s a standard hunter’s journal, though organized a bit more efficiently than most. Newspaper articles are neatly paperclipped to pages, while theories are scrawled down the page in looping script. The journal is only half-filled. Dean flips it over to see the initials C.N. embossed on the cover. 

“Hunter’s journal,” Bobby explains, once he sees the object of Dean’s interest. “Some guy kicked it a few weeks ago near Rawlins, Wyoming. Friend of a friend cleaned out his hotel room, and that stuff found its way to me.” 

Dean grunts, not really interested in the explanation. He does, however, pause to look at the cuff. It’s made of thick but pliable leather. Etched into the cuff are protection sigils, only half of which he recognizes. “You mind?” he asks Bobby, shaking the cuff in his direction. 

Bobby shrugs. “Not my stuff, don’t care. But if it’s protection you’re looking for, I’d look elsewhere. Obviously didn’t do that poor bastard a lick of good.”

Dean’s firmly of the opinion that, apart from an anti-possession tattoo, protection sigils are worth about as much as the ink they’re composed of, but the cuff is comfortable against his wrist. “What the hell,” he mutters, going back to his task of sorting out the rest of Bobby’s junk. “It’s not like he’s going to mind.” 

\---

The rest of Dean’s visit passes without remark. He catches up with Bobby, spends a few days making repairs on the Impala, sleeps in a musty bed that’s still better than standard motel fare, and gets to witness the oddly endearing yet still horrifying sight of Bobby flirting with the local sheriff. He leaves Bobby’s place feeling more well-rested than he did when he arrived, which is really all he can ask of life. 

He leaves in search of a case in northern Oklahoma. Three citizens in the past two months have died of ‘suspicious head wounds’ and ‘brain trauma.’ It’s enough to spark his interest, and he arrives in town early one morning. 

He slips into his monkey suit (he still feels like a third-grader at First Communion every time he wears it) and charms his way into the police station. He even manages to talk his way into possession of autopsy photos and a case file, though having them doesn’t make the case any clearer. 

The autopsy photos show that all three victims died of a stab wound. The blade entered into the brain through the soft spot just behind the ear. The coroner noted that the brain trauma was ‘massive,’ but failed to state exactly what that entailed. 

Dean’s just about to call Bobby and ask for help, but he pauses. The memory of Bobby complaining about his calls still stings. He knows Bobby meant nothing by it, and would probably be willing to help, but his pride hurts. 

He’ll figure this one out by himself. 

It means a trip to the local library, where he prays the librarians aren’t nosy. He also prays that the library caters to those with eclectic tastes; what he’s looking for strays pretty far outside the norm of most library canons. 

Fortunately, it’s a slow-enough afternoon for him to get a remote corner table to himself, but it’s also busy enough that the librarian doesn’t give him more than a passing glance and a courteous, “Anything I can help you with today?” Once he assures her that he’s fine, she returns to her work, leaving him blissfully alone. He browses the shelves. Surprisingly, there are two books that look like they might help him, and he grabs them before returning to his table. 

Dean glances around to make sure there are no children nearby; it wouldn’t do to have the Purity Police called on him because someone couldn’t stop their snot-nosed brat from wandering over. Fortunately, all the children seem engaged elsewhere, which allows him to spread out his photos along the table. 

He flips through the books. They don’t seem to have a table of contents, and they certainly don’t have an index. It looks like he’s going to have to look over every single page of these. Of course, they’re both bricks, and weigh as much as one. 

He’s barely made it through the first twenty pages before a thin shadow falls over his table. Dean’s hand immediately goes to cover his photos, but there’s too many of them. Besides, he’s already been found out. He looks up, ready to make some excuse, only for his words to wither on the tip of his tongue. 

Far from the typical library fare, this man looks… Dean hasn’t exactly made a habit of appreciating the male form, but it doesn’t mean that he hasn’t _looked_ , and this man is enough to turn anyone’s head. He’s dressed casually, though both his jeans and t-shirt do a nice job of hugging his frame. His leather jacket looks buttery soft and gives Dean all sorts of bad ideas. His hair looks wild and messy, and stubble scuffs along his jaw. There’s a faint smudge of dirt along one cheek, but Dean’s attention is drawn to the man’s eyes. They’re hypnotizing, a light blue that almost sparkles in the late afternoon sun. 

Dean licks his lips before he realizes he’s staring. “It’s not what it looks like,” he tries. For whatever reason, he really doesn’t want this man to decry him as a freak. 

“I’d say so,” the man says. Instead of looking horrified or disgusted at Dean’s reading material, he looks interested. A tiny line appears between his brows as he peers over the photos and books. His hand hovers an inch away from the photos, like he’s thinking of picking one up, but withdraws as he changes his mind. “The placement of the wounds is going to make you think wraith, but I don’t think it is.” 

Dean gapes. All of his excuses vanish, obliterated by one improbable sentence. “What?” he manages to get out, rather unintelligently. 

The man’s mouth turns down in a small frown. “If you look about halfway through that book,” he points to the book Dean hasn’t bothered to open yet, “you’re going to find a chapter that describes wraiths and the kinds of wounds they leave, and you’re going to think you’re hunting one, but I don’t think you are. I think what you’re looking for is a kitsune, which is a stroke of luck. They’re much easier to kill.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Dean tries for self-righteous and lands somewhere in the neighborhood of pathetic. 

“Of course. Read up, by all means, don’t trust my opinion, but tomorrow, I would call the medical examiner’s office and ask about the exact nature of the trauma. If they say there was damage to the pituitary gland, then you’re hunting a kitsune.” 

Dean mouths unintelligently at the man. “How can I trust you?” he finally asks. “You don’t even… Who the hell are you?” 

The man smiles without showing his teeth, a thin, weary-looking thing. “That’s not important.” His gaze falls to one of the pictures near Dean’s hand. For a moment, an expression of profound loss crosses his face, before he composes himself. “Look, I’m not asking for anything in return, and all it’s going to cost you is a few minutes of your time to make that call. And if I’m right, then I’ve saved you a hell of a lot of trouble.” 

For a second, the man hesitates and looks as though he’s going to say something else. Dean’s struck suddenly by how exhausted he looks, like it’s taking all of his strength just to remain standing. He doesn’t think the man looked that tired when he first arrived, but to be fair, he was too caught up in his own impressions to pay much attention to the particulars of him. “Good luck,” is all the man says, before he turns on his heel and walks away. 

Dean’s so startled by the whole encounter that it takes him a few seconds to move. By the time he gets up from the table and goes to the stacks, the man is long gone. Dean searches through the shelves, but finds no one. 

Eventually, he makes his way to the front desk. “Excuse me,” he says to the librarian. She looks up at him with a polite smile. “Did you see someone pass through here a few minutes ago? About this tall, leather jacket, dark hair?” He keeps his description minimal, all too aware of how a bundle of adjectives would love to jump forth. “I think he dropped his phone, and I’d like to return it to him.” 

The librarian frowns. “No, I haven’t seen anyone come through here, but if they were quiet, I might not have noticed. If you want, you can leave his phone with me at the front desk, and we can keep it in case he comes looking for it.” 

“No, that’s all right,” Dean says, suddenly aware that he doesn’t have a fake phone to give her. “I guess I’ll just keep looking. Thanks!” 

The librarian’s frown becomes a little more suspicious and she peers after him as he goes back to his table. He quickly packs everything up, knowing he’s drawn too much attention to himself. Best to get out before she does anything crazy, like call the cops. That’s a whole tangle of worms he’d rather not deal with. 

Before he leaves, Dean looks around the stacks. If there’s any secret to be told, they keep it remarkably well. 

\---

The next morning, he calls the coroner’s office and, as instructed, asks about the exact nature of the brain trauma. When the coroner informs him that all three victims had their pituitary glands damaged, he releases a long breath. 

Finally, he breaks down and calls Bobby to ask for everything he knows about kitsune. 

“That’s a weird one,” Bobby says. Dean hears the sounds of pages flipping. “Usually they keep to themselves. How’d you guess it anyway?” 

Dean bites his lip. While he wants to grab credit, he also doesn’t want to look like the Researcher Extraordinaire, only to fall flat on his face a few weeks later. “I had a tip,” he finally says. “Some other hunter was already in town. He must have been working the same case. He said to check if the victims had damaged pituitary glands, and they did.” 

Bobby huffs, like he knows he’s not getting the whole story, but he doesn’t bother to call Dean out on it. “Well, your man was right. Pituitary gland means kitsune; they’re the only thing around that will go for just that. Wraiths get the whole shebang.” He finally finds what he’s looking for. “Kitsune are solitary hunters and mostly nocturnal. Check around old abandoned bridges and tunnels; looks like that’s where they prefer to do the majority of their hunting.” 

Dean thanks Bobby and promises to let him know how the hunt went. “And Dean,” Bobby says, just before they hang up, “you run into your tip again, tell him to give me a call. I’d love to pick the brain of someone who can recognize a kitsune right off the bat.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says grimly as he hangs up the phone, “so would I.” 

\---

After that, it’s almost insulting how easily the hunt comes together. Dean spends an uncomfortable few hours skulking underneath the town’s bridge, which is in a neighborhood filled with all sorts of unsavory characters. He sees at least three drug deals go down and several more women leave in cars. 

There are thousands of injustices in this world to be corrected, but he’s only there for one. 

He finds it in the form of a slender woman who hangs to the edge of the streetlights. She does a decent job playing demure, but Dean can still sense something predatory in her stance and the way she eyes potential johns up and down. He catches her before she can make another kill, slides the knife into her heart, and sees the light leave her eyes. He places her body on the ground as gently as he can, then he hightails it out of there, just in case someone happened to see him. 

He calls Bobby to let him know how the hunt went and grabs a few hours’ worth of sleep. In the morning, he checks out of the motel room. With the kitsune dead, there’s no reason to hang around. 

He does pause in front of the library. Against his better judgement, he jerks the wheel over to the side and parks. Keeping a watchful eye out for the librarian, he makes his way back to the table he was at the previous day. He picks out a book at random and sits down. 

What he’s waiting for, he’s not sure. It’s not as though he expects the man to come striding back to his table and ask him out for dinner (does he?). It would be nice to thank him. If it hadn’t been for the tip, Dean could have easily spent another fruitless couple of days lurking around town until his pride finally broke and he called Bobby. In the span of that time, who knows how many lives could have been lost? 

Whatever he’s waiting for, it doesn’t come. Dean reads for two hours and no one ever bothers to disturb him. Eventually, he lays the book aside and takes another look around.

Without even a glimpse of dark hair or blue eyes to be seen, Dean gets up and leaves the library.

~*~*~*~*~*~*


	2. gave me such a fright

~*~*~*~*~*~*

  
  


Life continues on, much as it has for the past two years. 

Dean calls his father, and his father ignores him. He leaves messages checking in, letting Dad know where he plans to be, asking him questions, all to no avail. He loses hours’ worth of sleep wondering at the pointed silence. Is Dad in trouble? Or has he just finally managed to jettison all his troublesome baggage? 

He heeds Bobby’s warnings and calls more than once every few months. He feels like an idiot making small talk though, so none of their conversations last long. Mostly, Dean assures Bobby that he isn’t dead yet, and Bobby accepts the news with a grumble. 

He makes another trip to California. There’s no real reason for him to do so, other than the fact that for the past few months, discontent has been steadily crawling up his throat, until Dean can taste it. 

If he thought spying on Sam would improve his mood, he’s sadly mistaken. He waits outside one of the buildings for about ten minutes before his brother emerges. He’s not alone; an entourage accompanies him. Dressed in a myriad of polos, khakis, and sensible cardigans, all in various shades of pastels, they laugh and joke as they walk down the steps of the building. Several carry books, like they need the badges to prove just how much they belong in this world, and by contrast, just how badly Dean does not. Sam’s mouth splits wide in a laugh as he bumps into another guy’s shoulder, and something twists in Dean to see his brother give such unthinking affection to someone else. 

What he doesn’t tell Bobby, what he could  _ never  _ tell Dad, is how much he  _ misses  _ Sam. Their upbringing never gave them the chance to make friends, which meant that Dean’s entire social circle was composed of his brother. And, for the longest time, he thought Sam was happy with that. Then came the bomb of Stanford. Sam left, ripping away one of Dean’s main supports. He’s still bleeding out from the wound, slowly but steadily. 

Because he’s never learned to leave well enough alone, because he’s the type of person to pick at a scab and rip it away, Dean brings out his phone. Never taking his eyes off his brother, he types a quick message, trusting autocorrect to do its job, and sends it to Sam. 

**_hey i know we haven’t talked in a while just hope that you’re doing ok_ **

It’s pathetic. He sounds like the worst kind of helicopter parent, unable to separate from their precious offspring for a second without wanting them back. But he needs to know, needs to see his brother’s regard, even if it’s only for a second. 

Sam’s hand dips into his back pocket. Dean feels his chest clench as he watches Sam look at his phone. It’s no more than a second; Sam’s always been a quick reader. 

He waits for his phone to buzz with a corresponding message. It hits him then, in the seconds between him sending the message and Sam picking up his phone, how  _ lonely  _ he is, how much he wants someone’s company. 

Sam’s forehead creases as he regards his phone. Then, without a second thought, he puts the phone back in his pocket. One of his friends taps his shoulder, and Sam’s attention switches seamlessly to them. He shakes his head and shrugs, in a gesture so viscerally familiar to Dean that it feels as though his own shoulders move. 

Sam walks within twenty feet of him and never notices. Dean looks after him, chest open and gaping, as the most important person in his life leaves him behind.

\---

Dean makes it back to his hotel without wrecking the Impala; something he will attribute to luck rather than skill. His vision and cognizance narrow to those few seconds back at Stanford: watching Sam get his text, watching Sam ignore his text. Though Sam never touched him, Dean still feels his apathy like a physical blow. 

He locks himself in the room, feeling like a child throwing a temper tantrum. Maybe if he were younger, he would throw something, pound his fist into the wall until he leaves bloody holes, but he’s too old for that now. God, he feels  _ old.  _

Instead, he goes for the half of whiskey he knows is stashed away in the bottom of his duffel. He was saving it for an emergency, possibly medical in nature, but he’s willing to count this as an emergency of epic proportions. 

He drinks quickly and deeply as he tries to chase away the memories of the day. It works to an extent. Rather than focusing on the recollections of the afternoon, his mind gleefully takes him on a trip through the past, through years where he and Sam relied on each other, through nightmares and horrors, all the way through Dad’s drunken binges. He can remember how his stomach ached as he gave Sam the last of their rations, as well as the terror he felt the first time he dared to sneak a jar of peanut butter and a few cans of soup out of the store without paying for them. The whole way back to the motel, he was hunched over and terrified, convinced that he was going to feel a cop’s hand on his shoulder. It never happened, but the threat hung over his head long after Sam’s stomach was full. 

Dean was ten the first time he shoplifted. 

Sam never texts him back. 

Bitterness rises in his throat. Dean rubs at his eyes with the heel of his hand, cursing when his cuff hits his cheek. He rips the cuff off and tosses it across the room. Fat load of good that piece of shit did him. 

He curls up on the mattress. As the world starts to swirl around him, he closes his eyes and tries to block it out. Tomorrow, he’ll wake up and the world will be just as awful as it is currently, but at least he’ll have the benefit of a few hours of unconsciousness in the meantime. 

He falls asleep with the ache of Sam still hollowing out his chest. 

\---

In the morning, nothing is better. Not that Dean expected it to be. 

He’s still alone, a fact that doesn’t seem likely to change anytime soon. His phone remains woefully empty of all messages, either from his father or his brother. There are still ghosts and monsters in the world, most of which will kill people that Dean will never save. To top it all off, his mouth feels like it’s coated with sandpaper and his tongue is about twice its normal size. His brain feels like it’s trying to escape via his eye sockets, and as he sits up, his stomach gurgles in protest. 

“Fuck,” Dean mutters. Not quite the eloquent protest he means to make, but it sums up his feelings pretty well. 

Dean blinks in bemused surprise as his eyes land on the nightstand. Sitting neatly in a row are his phone (charging), the leather cuff, and a glass of water. Dean tries to remember his last actions before he fell asleep, but comes up empty. Those moments exist in a whiskey-colored haze. For all he knows, he could have gone out and done laundry. 

But he’s almost convinced that he tossed the cuff across the room right before he fell asleep. 

After a moment’s pondering, Dean shrugs. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t matter what he did, though it was nice of his drunk self to charge his phone. 

He gathers up his stuff so he can leave and get the fuck out of California. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Much as before, life continues on. 

Dean hears whispers through the grapevine, from Bobby and others, about strange omens, mostly in Wyoming and Idaho. Whole fields of cattle end up slaughtered, while a well’s water changes to blood. Meteor showers dot the skies wildly out of season. The rest of the hunters whisper  _ demons. _ Bobby just grumbles something and disappears behind his beard. 

The mention of demons always sends an uncomfortable squirm of anxiety rocketing through Dean. It’s born half from fear and half from the shameful thought of  _ better someone else than me.  _ He’s never hunted demons. He doesn’t know many hunters who have. Most hunters who go after demons end up dead, with good reason. Other than exorcisms, there’s not a hell of a lot hunters can do against them. In a fight between a hunter and a demon, the demon holds all the cards. 

Bobby and Dad are the only people he knows who have actual, real-world experience with demons, and neither one of them are the chatty type. Dean swallows his questions when he sees Bobby’s face. He doesn't know the whole story behind Bobby’s involvement with demons, though he knows it involves possession and Bobby’s wife, and he knows it ends with Bobby as a sad, drunk widower. 

Dean listens to the omens and strokes over his anti-possession tattoo (it was the single birthday present his father ever got him, and it was only later that Dad realized it was his sixteenth birthday). He makes a quiet decision not to visit either Idaho or Wyoming anytime soon, and promptly allows himself to forget about the matter. 

What’s harder to shake is the feeling that he’s slowly losing his mind. 

Objects move around his room, largely without his permission. He’ll fall asleep with the television on and wake up with the screen cold and black. He’ll drop his clothes in a breadcrumb trail leading to the bathroom and come back out from the shower to find his shirt and pants folded neatly at the foot of the bed. Insignificant things like pads of paper, pens, and books make a small circuit around the motel room, forcing Dean to look in the oddest of places if he wants to scratch down a note. 

He’s also noticed shadows moving at the corner of his eye. They don’t feel threatening, but Dean’s line of work has not given him experience in practicing the benefit of the doubt. Every time a shadow shifts where, logically, a shadow should not exist, he’s ready with the salt. But nothing ever appears. Dean spends his nights in an almost twilight state, where the hours pass in a haze between waking and sleeping. 

He doesn’t say anything to Bobby. What would he say?  _ Hey Bobby, I’ve lost track of a few pens here and there, and I think I saw a spooky shadow in the corner of my room?  _ Bobby would either laugh him off the line or throw him in the loony bin along with crazy old Martin Creaser. Either way, it doesn’t end well for Dean, so he keeps his mouth shut. 

He picks up a case in Arizona. Even in early spring, it’s hot as hell, and he sweats his way through the records at Town Hall as he tries to solve a 120-year-old murder case. The window air-conditioner spits and leaks down the wall as he finds information about Peter Corbin, a prospector who disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Put that together with the fact that his business partner came back from a trip fabulously wealthy, and it’s not particularly hard to see what happened. 

Now two tourists are dead, and another two swear they saw a figure with “blazing red eyes” at the front of a mineshaft. Dean wipes at the sweat gathering on the back of his neck and resigns himself to going hunting in weather as hot as the crack of Hell. 

He waits until night, when the worst of the heat is over, and drives out through the desert to the mineshaft where the tourists reported seeing the ghost. Based on maps and Corbin’s letters, he’s got a fairly good idea of where in the mine the body should be. He straps his shovel (conveniently iron, thanks a lot, Bobby) to his back and hefts his shotgun, along with his flashlight and salt, and heads into the mine. 

Almost immediately, he regrets his decision to come at night. He’s never known dark like this, complete and absolute outside the small circle of his flashlight. No starlight or moonlight reaches into the narrow shaft. The air inside the mineshaft is cool and close. The walls press in around him until he struggles to come up with enough air. Dean shudders, imagining that hands are waiting to reach out and seize him and drag him into the dark. 

Dean almost considers turning back, but then he pictures the look on his father’s face. The thought of his derision and scorn propels him forward and keeps him moving, even though his shivers are almost constant. 

“Come on, come on, come on,” he chants, sweeping his flashlight from side to side. He’s not far enough into the shaft yet, and he’s caught between wanting to sprint in order to reach his destination faster and wanting to creep along so as to not disturb the watchful silence. 

Every sound seems magnified in the close environment, the echoes bouncing off the walls and returning to him magnified and distorted. His heart crawls up to his throat, and there it resides, even as he ventures further in. 

Dean can’t shake the feeling that he’s running on borrowed time. Every second that passes is a second lost, and his chances are gathering at the bottom of his hourglass. 

He wants out. 

He needs  _ out _ . 

Dean spins around in a wild circle, panic gripping him when he realizes he no longer knows the way out. 

“Fuck,” he whispers. Forget his father’s contempt, forget the dead tourists, forget everything but the wild surge to  _ live  _ clawing through him. He turns back towards where he thinks the exit might be, only to stop dead in his tracks. 

The sands in his hourglass have run out. 

Peter Corbin stands before him in all his gory glory. The entire right side of his face is caved in, blood from long ago matted to his hair and skin. A sliver of white bone shines through his badly decayed skin. As Dean watches, Corbin’s face splits in a ghastly grin as one skeletal hand reaches out towards him. 

Fear rises in Dean’s throat, thick and overwhelming. He wants to run, but his feet are stuck to the ground. This is it. He’s going to die in some abandoned mineshaft in Bumfuck Nowhere, Arizona, killed by someone who died over a hundred years ago, and no one’s going to miss him when he’s gone. 

A pathetic little whimper burbles from Dean’s lips as Corbin’s fingers rake towards his face. 

Before Corbin has a chance to strike, he’s hit by some invisible force. Dean couldn’t describe it except as a shadow that wraps around Corbin’s form, keeping him contained. The shock of it propels Dean into action. 

His shovel slaps against his back as he sprints forward. With shaking hands, he pours out an uneven ring of salt. Corbin snarls in thwarted rage, eyes blazing angrily as he paces outside the salt barrier. 

Dean’s still shaking as he digs the tip of his shovel into the ground. The dirt here is packed in almost solid and he has to put his full weight on the blade to force it to bite through the crust. Eventually, he makes headway, praying all the while that he got the body’s location right. He won’t have a second chance if he didn’t; Corbin’s ghost is still prowling around the edge of his salt ring, looking for a weakness. 

The blade of his shovel digs into the earth again, and something cracks. Dean could almost weep for joy as hasty motions uncover a skeleton. “There you are, you bastard,” he breathes. He pours lighter fluid and the remainder of his salt onto the bones. Outside the salt ring, Corbin howls. 

A wind whistles through the mineshaft, blowing out the flame of his lighter as soon as it appears. Dean glances down at his salt ring. If the wind keeps blowing, his measly protection won’t last for much longer. 

“Light, you son of a bitch,” he murmurs, flicking at the lighter once more. “Come on, come on!” 

The wind howls, sweeping away the barest line of his salt circle. Nothing more than a hair’s width of salt now separates Dean from Corbin’s empty stare and horrifying leer. 

Dean hears the wind pick up again at the opening of the mind shaft. This time, when it reaches him, he’s going to be bereft of protection. He has his salt rounds, but they’ll only last him so long. Once his salt ring disappears, his death is a matter of when, not if. 

The howling of the wind increases. Dean’s thumb presses at the wheel of his lighter, to no avail. 

A figure separates itself from the rest of the darkness. It’s no more than a shadow, with no real discernible features, yet its aura is so different from Corbin’s silent menace that Dean can’t help but relax. As the last of the salt line blows away, the shadow wraps around Corbin’s torso, pinning his arms to his sides and rendering him helpless. The sound of Corbin’s screams echoes through the mineshaft, mingling with the screech of the retreating wind. 

The lighter finally sparks and a flame catches. Dean tosses the lighter down with trembling hands. Flames burst into existence, scorching in their intensity. The heat washes over Dean, and he no longer has the ability to keep himself upright. His knees buckle, sending him to the ground. 

Dean watches with mingled horror and relief as flames creep up Corbin’s legs to his torso. His eyes are the last to vanish, spitting acidic hatred as they latch onto Dean’s face. Dean, too weak and exhausted to do anything else, kneels on the cold ground as Corbin’s spirit is devoured, leaving nothing behind but a few sparks which vanish quickly in the relentless black. 

Despite the heat of the flames, Dean shudders. He came closer than he’d like tonight, on nothing more than a simple salt and burn. 

A shadow shifts on the outstretches of the fire’s light. Fear catches at the back of Dean’s throat. He can’t possibly fight another ghost, not now, when he’s weak and his lighter’s vanished. Still, he makes his voice as strong as he can when he shouts, “I know you’re there! If you’re going to do anything, go ahead and fucking do it!” 

Better challenges have been issued. His thin voice hits the edges of the mineshaft and falls back to him, pathetic in the presence of a shadow capable of subduing a vengeful spirit. Still, the shadow stops and almost  _ hovers.  _ Absurdly, Dean’s reminded of when Sam was younger and got caught doing something that Dean had expressly forbidden him from doing. That’s a decidedly  _ guilty  _ shadow shuffle. 

“Show yourself!” Dean barks. His hand falls to his wrist, shuffling his cuff against his clammy skin. He blinks away the sweat rolling into his eyes and squints through the smoke and flames. “Show yourself!” he commands again. 

He never expected to have any effect, but the shadow stops its movement. Dean blinks in astonishment as the darkness peels away from it, revealing…

Dark hair, strong jaw, broad shoulders, and the same jacket as before. 

“You’re--” he whispers. His brain rejects the evidence directly in front of his eyes. 

The man, the man from the library weeks ago, the man who, at the very least, saved Dean from a good deal of work and at the very most saved his life, recoils. Wide blue eyes stare at Dean for a good ten seconds. The man’s mouth opens like he wants to say something, but no sound emerges. He looks down at himself, examining his hands as though they’re strangers to him, before he looks up at Dean. 

Through the flames, Dean thinks he can see the words the man shapes:  _ How? Who?  _

Then, with no warning or sound, he disappears. 

Dean swallows, his eyes scanning through the darkness for any sign. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Nothing to prove that there was someone else here, nothing to prove that hunting hasn’t finally sent him off the deep end. He has only the memory of the shadow coalescing into a man, and the memory of that man’s horrified look. 

It’s then that Dean knows his suspicions are correct. 

He’s being haunted.

~*~*~*~*~*~*


	3. broken glass

~*~*~*~*~*~*

  
  


Bobby is understandably skeptical. 

“So you saw Mystery Man in the library once, and you think you saw him on another hunt.” 

“No, I don’t  _ think _ I saw him, he was fucking  _ there!”  _ With effort, Dean uncurls his fist. He sits down on the edge of the bed and rubs at his temples. He hadn’t expected Bobby to believe him right off the bat, but a little less outright disbelief would be nice. 

“Ok, so there was a ghost there, at your ghost hunt. You ever think that it was one of the other victims?” 

“No, Bobby, I’m telling you, it was the guy from the library. Which means he was following  _ me.  _ And if I’ve got a ghost attached to me, I’d sure as hell like to know how he got there.” 

“All right, all right, don’t get your undies in a twist,” Bobby grouses. “If you’re sure, then I guess that’s that.” Papers shuffle in the background. “I don’t suppose you’re carrying around any bones?” 

“I’ve got nothing. Hell, I’ve never even  _ seen _ this guy before, so I don’t know why he’d decide to latch onto me.” 

“Well, you  _ are _ one handsome devil.” 

“Bobby, it’s weird when you say that.” 

Bobby coughs into the phone, and the papers stop shuffling. “Look, I may have a friend who’s able to help. Do you think you could be up here by Thursday?” 

Being in Sioux Falls by Thursday will necessitate two days of hard driving, but it’s worth it. Nothing good comes from having a spirit around. Even the seemingly benign ones turn malicious in the end, an inevitable consequence of being cut off from the afterlife. To have that malevolence hanging over his shoulder, when he’s got an already dangerous job to contend with...what’s two days’ hard driving compared to peace of mind? 

“Yeah, I’ll see you then.” Dean hangs up the phone and packs up his motel room. It doesn’t take him long. He tosses the few shirts that managed to escape from his duffel back in, grabs his charger and leather cuff from the nightstand, and his toothbrush from the bathroom, and he’s ready to roll. 

As he turns his back, he thinks he sees a shadow stir in the farthest corner of the room. He whips his head around, but of course, by the time he turns to look, there’s nothing there. 

The hair on his arms rises as he stares at nothing, willing the shadow to come forth. “Laugh it up while you can,” he says, a bit more confidently than he feels. “Two days from now, you’re not going to be around.” 

Predictably, the shadow makes no reply. 

\---

Two days of hard driving has him pulling into Sioux Falls in the late afternoon. The Impala crunches over the gravel of Bobby’s driveway, but her customary spot has been taken by an unfamiliar vehicle. Dean rolls his eyes at the VW Bus, its rear fender almost completely rusted through. 

“Bobby, you keep company with the weirdest people.” He parks off to the side and yanks his duffel out of the backseat. 

He walks up the back steps. His hand stretches out to open the door, but before he can, it falls open, revealing a tall, brunette woman. Her smile has all the cuddliness of a set of steak knives, and her eyes have the light of a night of bad decisions that hurt so good. The studs in her leather jacket look like they’re winking at him, while her Doc Martens dare him to try something. She looks like the combination of his fifteen-year-old self’s worst nightmare and deepest fantasy. 

“Dean Winchester,” she drawls, eyes flicking over him like he’s a particularly juicy cut of meat. “In the flesh.” Her smile promises filthy innuendos. 

“Hi,” Dean finally stammers out. While he’s for damn sure tempted, this whole setup has the feeling of a trap. He’s not going to take the bait, even if it  _ is _ damn tasty bait. “Have we met?” 

“Oh, I’d remember  _ you _ .” She holds out her hand, and when Dean shakes it, her grip is strong enough to crack several small bones. “Pamela Barnes. Psychic.” 

“Psychic, huh?” Dean feels the immediate recoil that comes from meeting anyone who claims to see what he’s thinking. There are some things in his head that are meant to be private. “So if I asked you what number I’m thinking of, you could tell me?” 

“If you were thinking of a number and not how good my rack looks in this shirt, sure I could tell you,” Pamela says, then laughs at Dean’s dumbfounded expression. “Come on in. Bobby’s setting up.” 

She turns around and saunters into the house. Dean’s eyes are drawn to the deliberate sway of her hips, but he snaps his eyes away after just a few seconds. Now that he sees the trap, he can see its jagged teeth as well. 

He finds Bobby hauling a table to the center of his living room. Once it’s in place, Bobby covers it with a dark purple cloth adorned with sigils drawn in white chalk. For the finishing touch, he sets out candles along the edges. 

“A seance?” Dean asks, causing Bobby to jerk in surprise and knock a candle over with his elbow. “Why not just break out the Ouija board? Then, later, we can braid each other’s hair and gossip about boys.” 

“You giving me lip?” Bobby finishes setting up the candles and takes a step back to survey his work. “Look, you called with ghost problems, and as far as I can tell, a seance is the easiest way to get an answer from the spirit world. If it’s Pamela who’s dialing, I guarantee you, someone’s going to pick up. She’s the most powerful psychic in three states.” 

“Aw, Bobby, you don’t have to flirt like that!” Pamela comes into the room, three beers held between her fingers. “I already said I’d help you out, and you’ve already given me some delicious eye candy.” She winks at Dean, outrageously, and he finally starts to relax. 

“So when do we start this thing, anyway?” Dean is itching for answers. He’s been going around for the past few days feeling like he has a target painted on his back. Every dark corner is fraught with peril. He keeps catching motion out of the corner of his eye, but when he whips around, heart caught in his throat, there’s nothing there. Inch by inch, he’s going insane. 

He wants this done with. The sooner the better.

“Relax, have a beer. There’s a way of doing these things. Spirits like rituals, just like the rest of us. They’ll come out with the moon.” Pamela laughs at Dean’s disgusted expression. “There’s something to us New Age-y folks. Trust me, I’ve been doing this for a while.” 

She hands him a beer like a command. Dean takes a drink, and doesn’t taste anything until the third sip. Pamela watches him through dark eyes. They don’t reveal any of her thoughts, and Dean isn’t sure he would want to hear them. 

“I’m going to go catch something on TV. Bobby, you got an actual, real TV somewhere in this joint or are you still running stuff off rabbit ears?” 

Pamela wanders away into the labyrinth hallways of Bobby’s house, leaving him and Dean alone. Weird, how she seemed to understand that Dean wanted a minute of alone time with Bobby. Almost like she was psychic. 

Bobby gets to the point, with typical Bobby-bluntness. “So, you call your daddy about this?” 

Dean shrugs. He wishes there wasn’t the immediate flare of hurt that comes from any mention of his father, but there it is, like ripping the scab off a partially healed wound. “Called him.” 

Bobby grunts, but a terrible compassion is on his face. “He cares. He just—”

Dean polishes off the rest of his beer, wincing as his gut complains from too much gas. “You don’t have to make excuses for him, Bobby. He didn’t answer, so he didn’t answer.” Everything turns to bitterness in his mouth. “It’s not like I’m the kid he gives a shit about.” 

Bobby’s eyes are sharp. “That ain’t true.” 

“True or not, it doesn’t really matter.” A resentful smirk crosses Dean’s lips. “It’s not like he’s here to say otherwise, is he?” 

“Look, I’m not saying we need to get drunk before a seance, but I don’t think one or two more beers will hurt, do you?” 

Bobby doesn’t give him a chance to answer. He’s already made his way to the fridge. The beer he presses into Dean’s hand upon his return is cold. The condensation winds its way down his wrist, disappearing underneath his shirt sleeve. The look on Bobby’s face forbids any conversation, so they sit in silence and drink, waiting for sundown. 

\---

Pamela orders them to take each other’s hands as they take their seats around the table. Dean’s fairly certain that his palms are sweaty and unappealing, but he still wraps his fingers around both their hands. His pulse is racing, partly from excitement, partly from fear. He’s always thought seances were the stuff of fiction and bored college freshmen, but Pamela and Bobby both seem pretty confident. 

The only light in the room comes from the candles around the table. They throw irregular shadows onto the walls, turning Bobby’s familiar living room into something eerie and macabre. 

Pamela closes her eyes and takes in a deep breath. When she opens them, Dean feels it — the presence of the supernatural and otherworldly. It’s managed to creep into Bobby’s mundane existence, and it threatens to overtake all of them. 

“Spirits, I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circle.” A whispering wind creeps through the room, crawling over Dean’s shoulders and down his arms, across his wrists and to his fingertips. It leaves his hair standing on end, and the persistent feeling creeping through his veins:  _ You have been seen. You are known.  _

“I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circle.” The wind picks up, and the flames flare wildly. “I command you, appear unto me before this circle!” 

The flames on the candle ignite, flaring up to at least two feet. Dean lurches back to keep his eyebrows from burning off. “Shit!” he barks, looking at Pamela. Her face is screwed up in concentration close to pain. 

“Maybe we should call it off,” Bobby says. He hasn’t let go of Dean’s hand. Dean wonders if he knows just how tight his grip is. 

“No!” Pamela shouts over the wailing of the wind. “I’ve got this.” 

Dean doesn't doubt her expertise but he doesn’t like this. Years of hunting have given him an acute sense of when something’s wrong. Right now, it’s screaming. 

“Call it off! Whatever this thing is, it’s pissed!” 

“It’s not.” Pamela’s forehead smoothes in consideration. Her sudden calm is at odds with the chaos of the room. The howling wind and dancing shadows would be bad enough, but worse is the heavy presence of the eldritch. It slithers along Dean’s spine, cold and unwelcome. “The spirit’s talking to me, asking me to leave it alone. It doesn’t want to reveal itself.” 

“Well, tough! It’s revealed itself to me twice now. He doesn’t get to be shy!” 

Pamela smiles, her eyes closed to the terror of Bobby’s living room. “I’ve got a name. Castiel.” 

“What the hell kind of name—” 

Dean’s interrupted by the quick slap of wind. The sudden gust extinguishes the candles, leaving them all in darkness. Silence descends on the room, quick and merciless as a blade, leaving only the sound of their breath echoing against the walls. 

Dean recovers slowly. His eyes take a few seconds to adjust to the darkness of the room, which is of course when Bobby flicks on the light, causing Dean to yelp. “Shit, give a guy some warning, huh?” 

He scans the debris scattered around the room. All of Bobby’s carefully organized papers and books are in disarray. The remnants of a broken lamp are in the corner. Dean wonders if he looks as shell-shocked as Bobby. He knows for damn sure he doesn’t look as serene as Pamela. 

“So that went well,” she says, surveying the wreckage with muted glee. 

Dean blinks in disbelief, before he starts laughing uproariously. “ _ That’s _ a seance that went well? I’d hate to see one go badly.” 

Pamela laughs as she lounges back in her chair. She props her feet up on the table, smudging the lines in the tablecloth. Almost like magic, a bottle appears in her hand. She knocks back a slug of rotgut like it’s water, and Dean can only be impressed. 

“We’ve all still got ten fingers, you’ve got your dangly bits, and we didn’t get our eyes burned out, so I’d say that went great.” 

“Eyes burned out?” Dean blanches. “Is that a thing that happens?”

Pamela shrugs. “You hear things.” 

“Anyway, I’m glad all our eyeballs are where they should be, but it looks like that’s the only thing we got from this.” Bobby’s apparently skipped the clean-up part of the night and moved straight onto the whiskey part. He pours three generous portions for each of them and raises his glass in a silent salute. “I thought the goal of this was supposed to be to exorcise the spirit.” 

Pamela shrugs. “Spirits are unpredictable; that’s why I don’t issue a money-back guarantee for clients. Seriously, Bobby. I can’t predict what’s going to happen. Some of them are lonely and want to talk. This one was stubborn and wanted to stay hidden.” 

“If he wants to stay hidden so badly, why is he popping out in libraries?” Dean grumbles. He’s ignored by both Pamela and Bobby. 

Pamela finishes off her glass and motions for a refill. “Who knows why ghosts do anything? Maybe it’s just those bowlegs of yours that are drawing him out.” 

“A ghost with a crush?” Bobby swallows in the careful way that indicates an intention to settle in for the night. “That’d be a new one.” 

“Some spirits exist closer to the Veil than others. Some aren’t vengeful or malicious. They just...miss being alive.” 

Dean scoffs. “Yeah, but those turn vengeful too. All spirits do. They want to be alive, and it makes them jealous of those that are. Eventually, all of that boils over into anger and then…” He spreads his hands wide. “You’ve got a vengeful spirit on your hands.” 

Pamela smacks her lips as she finishes her drink. “Look, I don’t know what else you want from me. I got you a name.” 

“Yeah. Castiel.” Dean glances to Bobby. “That name ring any bells?”

Bobby shrugs. If possible, his scowl deepens. “Not much. If you check in the Apocrypha and church lore, they’ll tell you that Castiel is the name of the angel of Thursday, but I don’t think you’re so important that you’d have a damn angel sitting on your shoulder.” 

“If I’ve got an angel on my shoulder, then they’ve seen some shit.” Dean takes another slug of whiskey. “Wonder what would piss them off more? The blasphemy or the fornication?” 

“I don’t think we need to hear about that,” Bobby says, just as Pamela leans forward, a wicked look in her eyes, saying, “Tell us more about the fornication.” 

“Not until I’ve had at least four more drinks,” Dean says. He has to grin at Pamela’s whoop of glee. 

\---

Dean leaves Bobby’s house two days later, feeling significantly more hungover than when he arrived. Bobby has nothing new on his mysterious ‘Castiel’ and Dean got a whiff of a hunt four hours away, so there was really no reason for him to stay. 

Pamela left the morning after a truly catastrophic drinking binge, looking bright-eyed and well-rested. Dean, who felt as though he’d been dragged through Satan’s toenails and spat out through his sphincter, couldn’t empathize. 

“Look, I’m sorry I couldn’t help more, but my feeling is you don’t have a vengeful spirit lurking over your shoulder. If you see him again, try and get him to stick around for a bit. He might be hanging around because of unfinished business, so if you figure out what he wants, maybe you can resolve it. He leaves, and everyone’s happy.” 

“Okay, he has unfinished business, that’s fine. But why is he hanging around  _ me _ ?”

Pamela slides a pair of aviators over her eyes. “Who knows?” A grin like a blade slides across her face. “Maybe it’s your perky nipples.” 

Before Dean can answer, she’s swung herself into the driver’s seat of her van. The van creaks down the driveway and disappears down the road in a cloud of dust. He coughs in the aftermath, glaring at her. “Yeah, thanks for nothing,” he mumbles, going back inside to guzzle water to stave off his impending headache. 

\---

Dean arrives at his motel for the evening. He aches from the car and feels like he has a layer of sweat and grime encrusted on his skin. All he wants is a shower and three hours’ worth of uninterrupted sleep. His thoughts consist entirely of how good the lukewarm shower water will feel as it sluices over his shoulders, and how relaxing the lumpy mattress will be, when his fingers hit the light switch. 

The overhead light flares with a wild energy, glowing unnaturally brightly before it dims. A quick breeze sweeps through the motel room, notable because there are no windows open. Immediately, Dean’s exhaustion vanishes, replaced with caution and no small amount of hostility. “All right, little beastie, come out, come out, wherever you are.” 

The light flickers again, strobing wildly, before it blows in a shower of sparks. The room plunges into darkness, lit only by the bathroom light. It’s enough for Dean to catch the shadow that separates from the darkness at the corner of the room. His breath comes faster as the shadow solidifies into a singular form. 

Legs, a torso, arms… Dean watches them all materialize, darkness swirling around the figure until, in a seamless transition, the shadow dissipates to reveal a man. Jeans, boots, leather jacket, dark hair… eyes that flick towards him, their expression unreadable. Dean’s seen them before, those eyes, that face, in the library and then again in the mineshaft. Now he has a name. 

Without lowering the gun, Dean steps forward. 

“Castiel.” 

The ghost looks at him, face impassive. 

“Hello, Dean.” 

~*~*~*~*~*~*


	4. as long as you like

~*~*~*~*~*~*

  
  


Dean squeezes the trigger. 

He blames instinct. He’ll die before admitting to the small shred of fear governing his actions. 

The salt round hits the ghost right in the gut, and he disappears with a sharp, pained cry. Dean breathes harshly in the sudden quiet of the room, eyes darting around to every corner. With effort, he takes his finger off the trigger and sits at the edge of the bed. 

When the ghost flickers back into view, Dean is a little more prepared, which is good, because now the ghost looks pissed. 

“I’m sorry, are you stupid or just trigger happy?” 

The ghost’s voice sends an unexpected, and not entirely unpleasant, shiver down Dean’s spine. It’s deep and rough, like he’s been gargling with gravel, or like he smoked a pack a day before he kicked it. 

That’s when the ghost storms up to within a foot of him, and Dean reminds himself that this is not the time to concentrate on unimportant details. 

“The hell?” he asks, hand landing on the gun. “Back off, buddy.” 

The ghost scoffs, throwing his hands up in the air. “Back off? You’re the one who just shot me!” 

“Yeah, because you’re a freaking ghost! Unless you hadn’t noticed?” 

The ghost looks at him, mouth pursed in disdain. He takes a step back and sticks out his arm. Dean gapes as it goes straight through the TV, fingers poking out the other side. If possible, the ghost’s mouth twists further, like he’s spent his time in the Veil doing nothing but sucking on lemons. 

“I think that fact’s come to my attention, yes.” 

“Okay then.” 

“Okay then?” The ghost mimics his words, except with extra dramatic flair that Dean feels is a little unnecessary. “That’s what you have to say when I’m confronted with my own mortality?” 

Helpless, Dean shrugs. “I guess? Sorry, man, it’s not like I’ve done this before. You know, I normally just,” he gestures to his gun, “at ghosts.” 

“And after all I’ve done to help you.” From the look in the ghost’s eyes, he’s weighed Dean and found him severely lacking. “I can’t believe you shot me.” 

“Well, can you blame me?” 

“Yes! You  _ shot  _ me!” 

“You are way too stuck on that fact. Will it make it better if I apologize?” 

“Not particularly.” The ghost makes a pointed effort to sniff, which is impressive, considering that it doesn’t need air to breathe. 

They end up in an odd detente, the ghost on one end of the room and Dean at the other. Dean’s hand isn’t on his gun, but it’s not far away either. The ghost glares at him, like he’s trying to explode Dean’s head with nothing more than the force of a good scowl. 

“Look, man—” 

“Castiel,” the ghost interrupts. 

“Excuse me?” 

“My name. It’s Castiel. Castiel Novak.” 

Dean nods. His brain snags on the idea of making polite introductions with a ghost, but his life is so strange that this conversation ranks in the lower end of his Top Twenty Weirdest Incidents. Later, Dean will be alarmed by that, but for now, he needs to keep all of his wits in the conversation. 

“And you are...Dean. Dean Winchester.” There’s a slight pause before his surname. Dean nods, and the ghost echoes the gesture. “I thought so. I pick things up, sometimes, but the Veil isn’t…” He licks at his lips. “It’s not like listening to a radio show. There are missing parts, gaps of information. But I know that you’re a hunter.” 

“Then you know what I’ve got to do.” 

Surprisingly, Dean feels a little guilty at the thought. Castiel is right — he hasn’t been violent; in fact, he’s helped Dean several times. 

That’s when Dean realizes something that should have occurred to him a long time ago. “Wait. Are you… Were you a hunter?” 

One of Castiel’s shoulders rises in a shrug. “Obviously not a very good one. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here.” 

The knowledge hits Dean like a blow. He knows that all hunters end up the same in the end — his father’s ever-dwindling list of ‘old hunting buddies’ will testify to that — but it’s different knowing the theory of it and seeing evidence before his eyes. 

“Oh. Oh man, I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” Castiel says shortly. “As far as I know, it’s not your fault.” 

“As far as you know?” 

A mirthless smile crosses Castiel’s face. “Some of the details are still blurry. I know I’m dead, I know that it happened on a hunt, but I don’t know… All I know is that one moment, I was in a graveyard, and then I was in the Veil.” 

“I guess that’s a good thing, that you can’t remember?” Dean offers. He hasn't spent much time thinking about it, but he can’t imagine it would be pleasant to remember your last moments of life. 

“Sure. It’s nothing but sunshine and rainbows here.” 

Dean fights the automatic bristle which Cas’ caustic tone raises. He can forgive Castiel for being a little peevish; he doesn’t think he’d be any better if he were to find himself in Castiel’s shoes. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

The look Castiel sends him is withering. “Hardly.” 

He’d been hoping Castiel would want to talk. At least then, he could postpone the inevitable. Without that, there’s nothing to stop him from saying, “Well, I guess you know what I have to do.” 

Castiel looks at him. A complicated expression crosses over his face. “Dean, you don’t have to.” 

Dean swallows down a lump in his throat. “Cas, you’re a hunter. You know, just as well as I do, what’s going to happen to you, if I don’t…” 

“That’s not going to happen. I’m not…” Castiel paces around the room. “I helped you. I gave you the information on that kitsune case, I kept that ghost from hurting you — I’m not a vengeful spirit. I don’t even really know how I died, much less feel anger over it, so there’s nothing fueling me.” A dry, bitter laugh escapes Castiel’s lips. “Plus, it’s not as though you’d know where to find my bones.” 

“How are you hanging around? Far as I know, I’m not lugging a body around with me.” 

Castiel’s eyes flicker. If Dean wasn’t watching him so closely, he would have missed the tell. “You  _ know _ . Whatever it is that I’m carrying with me, that’s keeping you tethered to me, you know what it is.” 

A hopeless expression spreads across Castiel’s face. It eventually changes into resignation. “It’s that.” He points at Dean’s wrist, more specifically at the leather cuff encircling it. It feels more like a shackle than ornamentation. “That’s mine. I was wearing it when I…” He winces, rubbing at his mouth, before he focuses his eyes back on Dean. “I had it on that night. I’m willing to bet some of my blood got on it. There was a lot of blood.” 

Dean thinks he should be commended for not immediately ripping the cuff off and tossing it as far away from him as he can. He does flinch, a small shudder of revulsion shaking through his body all the way down to his wrist. With small, careful motions, he takes the cuff off. 

If he looks at it closely underneath the light, he can see a few places where the leather is darker than the rest. He touches one of the spots with the tip of his finger. Castiel’s blood. The last physical part of Castiel is tied into this leather cuff, the last reminder that he was ever on this earth, other than the ghost standing in front of him. 

“I’m sorry,” Dean finally whispers, looking up at Castiel. 

Castiel does a good impression of looking nonchalant as he folds his arms. “Are you sorry because I’m dead, because you shot me, or because you’re about to burn me?” 

Dean shrugs. A small laugh comes shaking out of him. “It can’t be all of the above?” 

“You can’t change the fact that I’m dead. You can’t take back shooting me, though I’ll appreciate it if you never do it again. It actually hurts like a son of a bitch.” Castiel takes in a deep breath, again an impressive feat for someone who doesn’t need to breathe. “What you  _ can _ do is not burn me.” 

Dean looks away. He can’t say what needs to be said if he’s looking directly at Castiel. “Buddy, I can’t—”

“Look, I’m a hunter; I know what could happen. Trust me, I  _ know.”  _ Castiel’s voice holds a hint of pleading. Dean can tell that he’s restraining himself from showing more. “But I’m not like that, I promise. The second I even think I’m like that, I’ll tell you, and I’ll burn that cuff myself.” 

“Cas—”

“Dean, please. I know you don’t know me, but you know your gut. Do I seem like a vengeful spirit? Have I acted like that?” 

“That doesn’t mean anything.” 

“You’re a hunter. Your gut means  _ everything,  _ and you know it.” Castiel passes a hand over his face. When it comes away, he looks faint and defeated, like this conversation is sapping every bit of his energy. For all Dean knows, it is. 

“I don’t want to hurt anyone. I just want to help.” Castiel swallows. “I don’t want… The Veil, it’s crowded, and it’s lonely, and it’s confusing. I don’t want to go back there.” 

“So let me send you on. To...Heaven or whatever.” Dean coughs, uncomfortable with the direction this conversation is taking. 

“Please,” is all Castiel asks. 

Dean makes the mistake of looking at Castiel. He knows what he should do. He knows what Bobby would do, and he definitely knows what his dad would do. His father wouldn’t think twice before lighting up the cuff and sending Cas on to his eternal reward, and that thought more than anything else stays his hand. 

Call it rebellion, call it compassion, but Dean doesn’t want to watch Castiel burn out in front of him. 

“Fuck you,” he sighs, clenching his fingers into a fist. He can’t shake the feeling he’s making a terrible mistake, but his lighter remains in his pocket, and he doesn’t touch the cuff where it sits on the bedspread. 

“If you ever even hint like you’re going dark side, I’ll burn you. I won’t think twice about it.” His threat might be a little weak, seeing as he had second and third thoughts about burning Cas, but he means this. Right now, Castiel is in his motel room and he’s just a guy, just someone with really bad luck who’s struggling to make sense of everything. But if it starts to look like Cas is hurting people, none of that will mean anything. 

“You won’t have to. If it looks like I’m going that way, I’ll burn the damn thing myself.” Castiel reaches out for the cuff, only to look dejectedly at his fingers as they pass straight through it. “Well, maybe not, but you get the basic idea.” 

Dean’s making such a bad decision. God help him if Dad ever figures out what he did. But somehow, looking at the soft, pathetic smile on Castiel’s face, Dean can’t help but think that a bad decision doesn’t necessarily mean a wrong decision. 

“So, Cas. You mind if I call you Cas?” Dean doesn’t bother to wait for an answer as he settles onto his bed. He pats the mattress of the opposite bed, indicating that Castiel should sit down. Castiel does so gingerly, like he’s expecting to sink straight through to the floor. “What’s a guy like you do for fun around here?” 

  
  


~*~*~*~*~*~*


	5. Chapter 5

~*~*~*~*~*~*

  
  


Depending on the day, Castiel is either the best or the shittiest roommate. 

He doesn’t sleep, which is obnoxious, because that fact somehow translates into  _ Dean  _ waking at the crack of dawn. Cas insists that Dean not waste any hours in the day. One morning, when he’s pushed too far, Dean snaps at him. “Look, I know you’re just spiritual energy and you don’t need any rest, but I need at least four hours if you don’t want me to wreck the car. So why don’t you watch TV, or do whatever the hell else your little ghost heart wants, and leave me the fuck alone!” 

He rolls over, yanking the comforter over his head to block his view of Cas. It’s an empty gesture, as he well knows: unburdened by such small considerations as molecules, Cas can reach straight through the comforter to brush cold fingers against his skin, but maybe Dean’s tirade got to him. He doesn’t hear anything from Cas other than a surly, “I’ll just wait here then,” and drops off for a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. 

The lesson doesn’t stick; Cas is still an utter asshole in the mornings, but it does feel good getting his frustrations off his chest. 

Cas is decent company on car rides, though their tastes in music are pretty damn incompatible. In the face of Cas’ whining, Dean has to repeat his rule of  _ driver picks the music, shotgun shuts their cakehole  _ more than once. Luckily for Dean, Cas still lacks enough control over his abilities to actually change the station. Doesn’t stop him from trying though.

“Would you stop it?!” Dean snaps, slapping at Cas’ hand as it inches forward towards the radio station yet again. He shudders as his hand passes through Cas. It’s a sensation that brings to mind either dipping his hand in ice-cold water or accidentally brushing up against a live wire. 

Cas retreats back to his side of the car. His face is set in the pissy expression that usually precedes a bitchfest. After the past two weeks, Dean feels like he could write a novel on what Cas likes to complain about — the food Dean eats, the music he listens to, the hours he keeps, his lackadaisical methods of research, his reckless tactics, his propensity for drinking. 

Cas trying to change the station on the radio is the last straw. 

“You know, I never had this many headaches before you, and I hunt dead people for a living, so that’s saying something.” 

Cas stares out the window, arms folded petulantly across his chest. 

They drive for about two hours in pure silence. Cas, it turns out, can hold a sulk like no one’s business. Dean doesn’t know if it comes from being dead or from some innate quality he possesses. Either way, it’s annoying, mostly because it leaves him feeling that somehow, he’s in the wrong. Although he’d never admit it out loud, ‘in the wrong’ is not a place which Dean likes to be. 

Luckily for him, there’s always a surefire way to draw Cas out of a mood. Dean nudges the folder sitting between them closer to Cas. It catches his attention, and though Cas tries to keep his stoic facade, Dean sees interest spark in his eyes. 

“So, you’ve read the case material. What do you think?” 

Cas purses his lips and stares straight ahead. Dean watches him out of the corner of his eye, waiting for the moment where Cas caves. By now, he’s learned that Cas always caves. 

Cas finally raises a shoulder in a belligerent shrug. “It’s a fairly open-and-shut case. Victims were all found with claw marks and their hearts torn out on nights preceding and following the full moon? It's a textbook werewolf.” 

“Werewolves.” Dean can’t stop the giddy little grin from darting across his face. “That’s one of the classics, but I’ve never…” He looks over at Cas, who isn’t as excited by this news as he should be. “Come on, Cas! Werewolves!” 

Finally, a tiny little grin breaks through Cas’ grim mask. It’s like the first hint of sunshine after a band of thunderstorms. Dean soaks in the light from it, without ever reckoning how happy it truly makes him. 

He didn’t realize, until he got stuck with the co-pilot from beyond the grave, just how unbearably lonely he’d been. Sure, Cas can be hellishly obnoxious and he has a stick stuck so far up his ass that not even death could properly remove it, but he’s someone to talk to. Even though he’s an asshole who complains through Led Zeppelin IV (if he hadn’t been dead, it’s uncertain whether Cas would have survived), he’s still company on the road trips that last for days. 

As an added bonus, it turns out that Cas’ guess with the kitsune wasn’t born of luck, but rather experience. No matter the monster, it seems like Cas has an almost encyclopedic knowledge of it. Outside of Bobby, Dean hasn’t met anyone with as broad a spectrum of expertise at their fingertips. Even Dad has to look for this stuff, but Cas just seems to  _ know.  _

It cuts down on the length of time required for hunts, and it also cuts down on the amount of calls Dean makes to Bobby. He doesn’t realize this until Bobby calls him one night and grumps at him, “Thought you’d lost my number, boy. There a reason you ain’t been calling lately? You taking a vacation?” 

“Um, not really.” Dean glances at Castiel, who’s stretched out on one of their motel beds and somehow manages to look both supremely uninterested and supremely nosy. “I’ve just been...uh, you know what, it’s a long story.” 

“Well, unless you’ve got a hot date, I’ve got time.” 

Castiel cocks his head in interest. Dean watches him and tries to figure out how he can explain his sudden skill in research. 

“I might be hunting with a partner,” he finally decides. An incomprehensible look shifts over Cas’ face. “Novak.” 

Bobby hums. There’s a warning in the sound, but Dean doesn’t pick up on it until Bobby says, “That wouldn’t be Castiel Novak, would it?”

Cold jolts through Dean. “What do you know about Castiel Novak?” he asks, suddenly wary. 

“After we held our little seance, I went searching for any kind of Castiel I could find. Obviously, we’re not looking for an angel, but I did hear from Walt and Roy about a hunter named Castiel Novak that died a few weeks ago. Turns out they dumped a box of some of his stuff here — a journal, a few knives, and a leather cuff with protection sigils etched in it. Any of this starting to sound familiar?” 

Dean doesn’t answer, which, for Bobby, is answer enough. “So tell me, how is Castiel Novak? Because from what I hear, he isn’t partnering with anyone, on account of being dead and all.” 

“Ah, now, you see,” Dean begins, but he’s drowned out by the sound of Bobby’s righteous anger. 

“Are you out of your ever-lovin’ mind? What the hell do you think you’re doing?” 

“Give me the phone,” Cas whispers, holding out his hand. “I want to talk with him.” 

Dean muffles the phone against his shoulder. “Yeah, that’s not going to fucking happen.” 

“I’m serious, give me the phone.” Cas gets up from the bed and reaches out for the phone. 

“You can’t even hold a phone, so stop—” 

“Dean, what the hell is going on?” 

“I said, give me the phone—” 

“And I said that’s not going to happen—” 

Cas’ fingers wrap around the phone, much to Dean’s astonishment. He can only watch in fascination as Cas plucks the phone from his suddenly weak fingers and retreats across the room with it. He puts the phone on speaker, then sets it carefully on the bedspread. “Hello?” he asks, sounding like he’s fielding phone calls at an office. 

“Yeah, who’s this?”

“I’m Castiel Novak. I don’t think we’ve been introduced.” 

There’s a moment of stunned silence on the other end of the line. If he weren’t so horrified by the current conversation, Dean would be impressed. Not many people have the ability to actually bring Bobby to a halt. 

It doesn’t last long. Bobby rallies, coming back with a, “I don’t know what the hell you’re playing at, but if you’re every bit the hunter I heard you were, you’re going to do the right thing—” 

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt,” Cas says, as he interrupts, “but I’m going to stop you right there. I am every bit the hunter you heard, which is why Dean hasn’t been calling as much. I’ve been helping him on his hunts, as much as I’ve been able to.” 

“That’s real nice of you, but we both know what’s going to happen in the end.” 

“Bobby?” Dean takes time out from his busy day to shoot Cas a dirty look before he concentrates on the phone. “Yeah. I’m not stupid. Cas isn’t… If he...if… Well, we both know what’s going to happen.” 

Cas’ eyes fall to the cuff encircling Dean’s wrist. The cuff is both promise and shackle, a physical reminder of Cas’ mortality coiled around Dean’s skin. 

“This is the stupidest decision you’ve ever made, and that’s saying a hell of a lot,” Bobby finally sighs. “I guess I can’t talk you out of it, but if this ends up biting you in the ass, well, I told you so.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean rolls his eyes, though he’s privately pleased. He wasn’t expecting Bobby to give up without a hell of a longer fight. 

“And if you do end up hurting him, Novak, nothing’s going to stop me from heading over there and burning you myself, you hear me?” 

Castiel nods, then realizes Bobby can’t see him. “Of course.” His eyes flick to Dean, dark and unreadable. “I’d expect nothing less.” 

“Dumbass son of a bitch,” Bobby curses, but his anger has faded into a fond resignation. “Look, just keep yourselves out of trouble, all right? Lot of hunters have reported seeing some weird-ass omens lately. Means that there are demons out there. You see anything with demons, you just steer clear, least until you’ve got some backup. Those things are nasty.” 

Dean listens to Bobby, but the majority of his attention is drawn to Cas’ face. If anything, he’s paler than usual, a haunted look on his face. He appears vague around the edges, his outline blending in with the ugly wallpaper. As Dean watches, he almost seems to flicker. 

“Yeah, thanks for the heads up. Listen, we’ll call you back later, all right?” 

Before Bobby can raise objections, Dean hangs up. Worry flashes through him as he looks at Cas. There’s definitely something translucent about him now. No way he could muster the strength to pick up a cell phone. 

“What’s the matter?” 

Cas’ throat bobs with the force of his unnecessary swallow. “I just remembered. My last hunt. Demons. I was hunting demons.” 

Dean blinks. Most hunters don’t go after demons because it’s basically a suicide mission, as evidenced by the ghost in front of him. 

“What the hell were you doing, hunting demons?” 

Castiel cocks his head to the side. “Why wouldn’t I?” 

“What do you mean, why wouldn’t — because of this, you stupid asshole!” Dean gestures at Cas, suddenly overcome with fury. If he’d been there, he would have told Cas just how much of a death trap a demon hunt was. If he’d been there, he would have stopped him. 

Dean wishes, with a viciousness that surprises him, that he could go back six months and find Cas to shake some sense into him. 

Cas’ eyes shadow as he looks away. “Yes, well, I recognize the error of my ways now.” 

It’s possible Dean was too harsh. He coughs and tries to walk his remarks back. “Hey, you know, I’m—” 

Cas shrugs like he’s trying to remove a physical weight. “It’s fine.” His mouth twists in an awful parody of a smile. “Or not fine. But it is what it is. Gabriel said I was being reckless, and he was right.” 

“Gabriel?” 

Castiel nods. “My brother. He was supposed to show up the day after, and we were going to go after the demons together. He told me to wait, but there…” Castiel’s face twists in confusion. “Something happened. Something that…” With difficulty, Cas wrangles his expression into something bordering on stoic. “Whatever it was, it’s obvious how it ended up. And I guess Gabriel ended up having to burn…” 

“Hey, come on. Turn on the TV, see what’s on. Maybe we can catch another episode of Dr. Sexy.” It’s a clumsy change of subject, but Dean doesn’t particularly want to think about Cas’ body on a pyre, burning away to nothing.

Cas cocks an eyebrow at him. For a second, Dean wonders if Cas is going to call him on his redirection, but he lets it be. “That’s your soap opera, right?”

“It’s not a soap opera; it’s a medical drama.”

“Right.” Cas drags the word out at least five syllables more than it has to be. “The medical drama with ghosts and evil twins.” 

“Look, Dr. McDreamy had  _ no idea  _ that his brother hadn’t died in that car wreck—” 

“Whatever. Turn it on.” Cas does his best to settle into the pillows. He looks as comfortable as a ghost wearing a leather jacket and boots can look. “Perhaps Dr. Piccolo will finally realize her deep-seated interest in Nurse Santiago.” 

“Why, Cas, you sly dog,” Dean says, before he picks up the remote and starts to flip through the channels. 

  
  


\---

Castiel is the worst. He’s the absolute worst, to the point that Dean is going to burn him to ash just so he never has to look at his stupid Cas face again. 

To start with, Cas has zero regard for personal space. No matter where Dean turns, Cas is  _ there,  _ inescapable. Like herpes. Could be breakfast, could be a stakeout, could be while Dean’s digging out a grave. Doesn’t matter, Cas is  _ there.  _

“You know, you could try that whole corporeal thing and give me a hand with,” Dean pants, leaning on his shovel. He’s waist deep in a grave, with at least another three feet to go, and Cas, the asshole, is squatting at the edge of the hole, peering down inside it with detached interest. 

“Dean, you know my control over inanimate objects is tenuous at best.” Dean’s not sure, but he  _ thinks _ that’s a fancy way of Cas saying  _ like hell I’m helping you dig that grave.  _

“Whatever,” Dean grunts, forcing his already exhausted muscles to dig out a few more shovelfuls of dirt. “Next time I go looking for a hunting partner, I’m picking one that can pick up a damn shovel.” 

Cas, true to form, says nothing. 

And that’s fine, because when he was hunting with Dad, it always seemed to be Dean buried in the grave, while Dad waited up top with the kerosene and match. But Dad usually treated him like a stray cat: something that he would occasionally bestow a little attention on, but was more often than not an inconvenience getting in the way. Dean didn’t realize how accustomed he’d become to the treatment until he had to deal with Castiel, who refuses to leave him. 

Nothing is sacred anymore, not even showering. He stumbles out of the bathroom to find Cas sitting placidly on the bed, staring intently at a book. Depending on the day, Cas can either read for himself or he needs Dean to flip through the pages of the book for him. Dean’s gotten used to reading with one hand while turning the pages of Cas’ book with the other. Cas’ gaze switches from the book to Dean, his eyes widening slightly when he takes in Dean’s appearance. From the intensity of Cas’ stare, Dean can guess that it’s a page-turning day, which he wouldn’t mind, except the only thing protecting his modesty is a flimsy hotel towel wrapped around his waist. 

And Cas isn’t terrible looking, what with the hair and the face, and Dean’s always had kind of a thing for leather and blue eyes and pretty lips, and he’s not having this conversation. Not now, when he’s still damp and slick from his shower, and when Cas’ gaze is so very  _ intense.  _

He’s an intense guy in general, Cas. Dean’s noticed that whatever Cas does, whether it be reading, watching TV, or examining him after a shower, he tends to throw his whole focus into it. Which is kind of cool when it’s applied to a dusty book and less cool when it’s applied to Dean in a towel. 

Flustered, and irritated because he’s flustered, Dean snaps. “What the hell, Cas? You normally just lurk around waiting for people to come out of the shower?”

Cas cocks his head to the side, eyes narrowed in irritation. “Where would you like me to go? Shall I run down to the store for a pack of smokes?” 

“I don’t know!” Dean crosses his hands over his chest, feeling absurdly as though he’s lost the high ground in this conversation. “But it’s weird to wait around for me to come out of the shower.” 

Cas stares at him for so long that Dean worries he’s lost his reason. Then Cas blinks hard, twice. “I suppose I’ll just step outside every time you shower?” 

“Yeah,” Dean says. He’s dissatisfied with almost everything — as much as he doesn’t want Cas  _ here,  _ he also doesn’t want him  _ not here,  _ but he can’t go back and say that. “I guess. Whatever.” 

Cas rolls his eyes before he continues his staring contest with his book. He lowers a hand to the pages and huffs in irritation as his fingers pass straight through. Without thinking, Dean leans over and flicks the page for him. 

“Thanks,” Castiel says, eyes on the book, which is good. If he were to see the blush spreading across Dean’s face, Dean would never hear the end of it. 

Thus ends the Shower Debacle. Worse is the Failed Bar Hookup. 

It starts with Dean’s bad mood, which descends for no particular reason and remains unshakable throughout the day. For the most part, Cas bears the brunt of it with little complaint, focusing his attention on the scenery flying past outside the windows. Dean catches little glimpses of Cas out of the corner of his eye throughout the day. Each time, he has to grit his teeth to bite back a snotty remark. He doesn’t know why he feels this way, only that he does, like some wild animal with its leg caught in a trap, gnawing at its own flesh in desperation. He needs to get out. He needs to be alone. 

Matters come to a head when they pile into the motel room. Dean spends about fifteen minutes pacing, aware all the while of Cas’ cool gaze. The more he paces, the more heated he gets, until he thinks he might burn straight through his clothes. Chafing under the constant supervision, Dean’s itching for a fight, and Cas is all too happy to provide him with one. 

“I’m going out,” he says shortly, shrugging into his jacket. “You can go do whatever it is you do.” 

Cas casts an acerbic glance at him. “Yes, I’ll go indulge myself in the nightlife, shall I?” 

“You can go out and dance naked on the roof for all I care, just do it somewhere other than here,” Dean snaps. “I just want a goddamn night to myself, is that too much to ask?” 

He waits for Cas’ snappy retort or at least an indignant sniff, but the whole room is deadly silent. Unable to withstand the silent sulk, he turns around to find—

Nothing. 

No matter if this was the outcome he was aiming for, the sight of the empty room is enough to make him take a step back. It only hits him then, how much he’s come to rely on Cas’ presence, how much he enjoys it. “Cas?” he calls out, just in case Cas is lurking somewhere out of sight. 

He gets no answer. Panic claws high in his throat for a second — what if Cas is really gone, what if he never sees him again — but then, with difficulty, he forces his emotions back down into his gut. This is what he wanted, after all. Peace and quiet, a return to his normal life? No Cas lurking over his shoulder? 

“Whatever,” Dean says, as he locks the door behind him. 

\---

The bar is messy and loud and the right kind of dark to encourage bad decisions. Feeling reckless, Dean wants to make more than a few. He eyes a group of what look like college girls, out for a walk on the wild side in the safest unsafe place they could find. They cluster together, tossing nervous looks over their shoulders to a chorus of tittering giggles. They toss back shots like shields, and a few of the braver ones make eye contact with the bar’s patrons. 

One particularly courageous redhead locks eyes with Dean and smiles, after finishing her shot. Dean returns a wide smile of his own, invitation and trap alike. She leans over to the friend closest to her and whispers something into her ear. The friend gives her a look, eyes wide and lip curling. Whatever she says makes the redhead laugh. She throws her head back with the force of it, but Dean catches the quick sideways glance to be sure he’s paying attention. 

He is. Most definitely, he is. 

The redhead saunters over to him, hips twisting dangerously as she drops onto the stool next to him. “My friend says you’re probably either a drunk or a serial killer,” she says by way of an opening. She smiles, secret and confidential. “You’re not either one of those, are you?” 

Dean grins, ignoring the fact that either of those definitions could be applied to him. “What do you think?” he asks, flashing two fingers at the bartender. 

“Well, you’re too smooth to be completely sloshed, and I would hope a serial killer would have some better fashion sense.” Her nose wrinkles as she looks at his flannel, jeans, and boots, but smoothes as she returns to his face. Prissy college girl, but there’s another way of describing that, which is  _ low-hanging fruit.  _ Dean’s put up with a lot worse than a snide dig about his clothes to get laid. 

“Well, my subscription to Killer’s Fashion Monthly got canceled last week because I was too drunk to renew it, so I guess you’ll have to take your chances.” Two shot glasses materialize in front of him. Dean hands her one, making sure their fingers overlap on the handoff. He feels the small shiver run through her body, watches her mouth part.

Oh yeah, he’s got this in the bag.

\---

He most certainly does  _ not _ have this in the bag. 

Which is ridiculous. College co-eds are such an easy pickup that they don’t even count as a workout. Red should have been a layup. 

There for a while, she was. After two shots, Red was in the fun stage of flirty, her initial nerves vanished. Red, or Hannah (Anna? Jana? Something in that realm), had moved straight into the touchy-feely stage of hookup foreplay, her hand resting on his sleeve, her knee pressed into his thigh. She seemed to think that her neck was one of her best traits, considering the number of times she flipped her hair to the side, exposing the pale, milky flesh. 

And Dean  _ wanted,  _ but the want was muted, like thinking of burgers after he’d had a steak dinner. He could acknowledge that burgers were delicious, while quite cheerfully denying himself a taste of one. 

But Red isn’t a burger, and he hasn’t had a steak dinner in longer than he would care to think about, so he’s not sure why he’s suddenly suffering under a bout of self-inflicted celibacy. 

He tries to push through. He takes Red’s hand in his, thumb caressing the soft flesh of her palm until she shivers, and leads her away from the bar. Places like this have dozens of small, dark corners, and Dean is an expert at finding them. He leads her into the dark hallway and groans appreciatively as her lips find his. 

The kiss isn’t bad — a little too wet, a little aggressive with the tongue, but it’s certainly not dampening his enjoyment. He puts his hands on her hips and opens his mouth, waiting for the low burn of desire to start. 

It never comes. There’s something in his stomach that could charitably be described as a fizzle, but the flame never sparks. He waits and waits, even goes so far as to trace his fingers down Red’s stomach and dip underneath the hem of her shirt to touch her warm, quivering skin, but no joy. 

He’s thinking maybe he can power through this, at least for as long as it takes him to make up a phony excuse to leave, but Red is a little ballsier than he thought. Her hand sneaks down his stomach to cup him through his jeans. What she finds is less than impressive, and Dean winces as she pulls back. 

“What the hell?” Her nose wrinkles in distaste. “I thought you wanted this.” 

“I did. I do,” Dean tries to assure her, though he’s not so certain on the last claim himself. “It’s just…” There’s really nothing he can say. “I’ve been under a lot of stress lately?” 

The disgust in Red’s expression could blister the paint off a barn. Dean doesn’t really blame her. “Fuck off, weirdo,” she says, tossing her hair over her shoulder. She stalks back into the main area of the bar. Dean’s left in the shadows, feeling oddly used. He can’t face the prospect of walking past the college girls and hearing their whispers, so he slips out of the back and into the Impala. 

It’s not a big deal. He’s never been in this situation before, but it stands to reason that the stresses of the job would get to him eventually. He ignores the fact that, thanks to Cas’ help, the job has been a hell of a lot less stressful than ever before. He’s seen some shit. He’s tired. He’s grouchy. He had, like, four whiskeys before he tried with the girl. And somehow, all of that caught up to him in a perfect storm of flaccidness. 

He walks back into the motel room, and his heart sinks when he finds the room empty. “Cas? Cas, you here?” 

He doesn’t get an answer, and he goes through the possibly ridiculous task of checking through the tiny motel room. He even pulls aside the shower curtain, all to no avail. “Yeah, well, good riddance,” he mutters, unconsciously tracing over the etchings in Cas’ leather cuff. His voice echoes around the room, which remains as empty as the words felt in his mouth. 

He settles down on the bed and turns on the TV. The channels run past him, too quickly for him to settle into any one program. He eventually lands on a mindless home improvement show, but he barely pays it any attention. His brain is entirely too noisy for his own comfort. 

What if Cas really is gone? What if Dean chased him away like he chased away Sam and Dad? What if Cas is stuck in the Veil, unable to move on, and it’s because of him? 

Letting his mind chase itself in circles isn’t doing him any good, but he can’t stop himself. He can’t stop thinking about Cas, or his tiny little smile whenever Dean yells at Dr. Sexy for doing something stupid, or the small line etched between his eyebrows as he concentrates on moving objects. Or Cas’ snide remarks whenever Dean sings along with the radio, or his dry-as-the-Sahara sense of humor. Or how Dean always has the urge to reach over and flatten his hair, or how his leather jacket seems tailor-made for his shoulders. 

All these thoughts have Dean dizzy, so he does the one thing he can think of to do when his brain is spinning and he’s alone. He pops the buttons on his jeans, works them down his thighs and dips his hand in his boxers. It’s not the most elegant way of stopping his brain, but it’s effective and fun. 

He breathes a sigh of relief as, after just a few strokes and a few sweeps of his thumb over the head, his dick starts to plump up in his hand. Not broken then, just temporarily offline. He can work with that. 

Dean takes the time to work his boxers and jeans off, settling into the mattress before he spreads his legs. His free hand slides over his hip to his inner thigh, teasing at the soft skin there, before he brushes over his balls. He cups and rolls them, before giving them a soft tug, hissing in pleasure. It’s been too damn long since he indulged in this, too damn long since he was alone to indulge. Quick shower jerkoffs don’t have the same kind of flavor or relief. 

His mind goes blank as he continues, precome providing all the moisture he needs to slick his strokes. He doesn’t conjure up any particular fantasy, just that of a hot mouth wrapping around his dick, clever fingers sneaking down from his balls to the skin underneath. “Ah, fuck,” he pants, daring to stroke a finger over the tight pucker of his hole. He doesn’t go for anything more just yet, but the illicit pleasure, combined with the deprivation, is enough to send him hurtling towards the edge. 

He’s close, hips thrusting into the tunnel of his fingers. He bites his lip, imagining that mouth hollowing against his cock, a hot tongue curling around his dick. He presses in at his hole, the tip of his finger threatening to slide in. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Dean chants, almost but not quite all the way there. He’s hovering right on the edge, needing just a little more to shove him over. 

_ Clear blue eyes and chapped lips stretched into a wicked smirk around his dick, dark hair plastered to his forehead by sweat, Cas winks at him before he slides his mouth all the way down, swallowing him to the root— _

Dean chokes and comes, the orgasm punched out of him. His balls ache as he spurts white over his stomach, his knuckles and heels digging into the mattress. “Ah, fuck, oh shit, oh fucking fuck,” he gasps, sweeping his thumb over the head of his cock as the aftershocks quake through him. 

“Fuck,” he whispers eloquently, wiping his forehead off with his clean hand. 

He’s not going to lie, some of his fantasies have taken a weird sort of approach, but he’s never,  _ never  _ come to thoughts of another guy. And  _ Cas?  _

Cas is obnoxious, hateful, and irritating. Cas makes fun of his music, his clothes, and his diet, and wouldn’t appreciate good television if it bit him on the ass. Cas is a know-it-all who enjoys mocking Dean’s ignorance for no other reason than it’s amusing. 

Cas has a hell of a pretty mouth. 

“Fuck!” Dean says again, with more strength. 

“Dean?” 

The voice is weak but unmistakable, and it shoots a thrill of horror straight through Dean. With the evidence of what he was doing still on his belly and thighs, there’s no way for him to save face. He claws at the comforter, trying to shield his lower body, but all he achieves is wrapping himself up in it so thoroughly that he crashes to the ground. His legs flail as cooling come smears over his lower body and the comforter alike. 

“Dean, are you okay?” Cas’ face pops over the edge of the bed, which is bare now except for a fitted sheet and one pillow that’s desperately trying not to succumb to gravity. “I heard you shouting—”

“Fuck, I’m fine. I’m fine Cas, everything’s good.” 

Cas raises a questioning brow. Dean’s willing to admit, the situation looks bad — him, wrapped in a comforter like he’s a sorority girl at the showers, sweat beaded on his forehead, his naked ass on a motel carpet where he would question walking in his bare feet. 

Cas looks — well, he looks the same as he always does; not that many wardrobe changes amongst ghosts. His hair is the same mess it inevitably is; he still has that eternal smudge of dirt on his cheek. His eyes twinkle with barely suppressed mirth. 

_ Those eyes, gleaming up at him as those lips curve into a teasing smirk, those lips wrapped around his cock, tightening as Cas bobs his head— _

No, no, fucking no. As bad as it was to think those thoughts about Cas while he wasn’t there, it’s a million times worse when Cas is only a few feet away. And Cas is  _ dead!  _ Dean’s not sure of the morality of crushing after dead people, but he’s willing to bet that it’s not great. 

“You know,” Cas finally drawls, taking a step back. Dean doesn’t dare get up off the floor. “If you wanted some ‘private time,’” he says, and actually uses finger quotes to punctuate the words, “you could have been nicer about it. I would understand.” 

The words take a few seconds to sink into Dean’s brain. When they do, he recoils in horror. 

“What the hell? You were  _ here?  _ Cas, you don’t, that’s gross, you don’t — what the hell were you doing here? Why didn’t you say something?”

Cas shrugs, looking supremely unconcerned. “I stepped outside, but really, Dean, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’re a red-blooded American male in the prime of your youth. It’s natural that you have…” Cas’ eyes perform a quick flick over Dean’s body. “Urges.” 

“Fucking freaky-ass ghost!” Dean snaps, conveniently forgetting that he’s the one who came to a fantasy of said freaky-ass ghost. “Okay, let’s just never talk about this again.  _ Ever!”  _ he snaps, when it looks like Cas is all too willing to continue the conversation. 

“Of course, if it makes you uncomfortable.” Cas shrugs like it’s not a big deal and settles on the bed. He goes so far as to pick up the remote and start flipping through the channels. “And Dean? If you ever want me to stick around, I can do that too.” 

Dean has absolutely no answer for him. 

  
  


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	6. share my all

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Neither of them ever talk about the Jacking Off Nightmare, and Dean chooses to believe they’ve both forgotten about it. Sometimes, he’ll catch Cas with an odd gleam in his eye, but Cas is an odd duck anyway. It always passes once Cas realizes Dean is looking at him, and Dean manages to convince himself that he’s imagining things. Besides, Cas is a ghost. He can’t want _...those  _ things, and he certainly doesn’t want them with Dean.

For his part, Dean returns to quick, silent jerkoff sessions in the shower. He makes it a point to try and control his shitty temper, and he and Cas exist in relative peace and harmony. 

Dean throws himself wholeheartedly into hunting and finds that he has the energy for it. They tear through the country on a spree, from Pennsylvania to Nevada, putting down ghouls, wraiths, poltergeists, and, on one memorable hunt, a black dog. With Cas’ help, Dean takes them all down. He burns a spirit in Ohio with Cas’ voice urging him on, seemingly unconcerned about the parallels between his own situation and that of the spirit. 

When it’s done, he walks into a 24-hour convenience store with Cas at his side, chattering about the differences between native and non-native honeysuckle and their various impacts on the environment, and ignores the stares of the coked-out cashier. 

As long as he doesn’t touch anything, Cas is strong enough to appear wholly corporeal to the general public, but there’s a slight aura of the eldritch that clings to him. It’s enough to make civilians wary of him sometimes. Dean pays for his six-pack and some jerky and leaves, Cas still yammering along. Cas is in rare spirits; he isn't normally this chatty. 

Later that night, he and Cas sit across from each other on the single king bed in the room (“It doesn’t matter,” Cas said reasonably when they walked into the room, “it’s not like I’m going to get any use out of it.”), trading quips and cards. Cas’ control over inanimate objects is growing better by the day. Though he still can’t touch Dean, he can manipulate and move small objects like phones, bags, and cards, which enables him to kick Dean’s ass in poker. 

“You need to practice picking up a shovel,” Dean mutters, trying to distract Cas from the shitty hand he’s holding. “That way, we can bet over more than channel privileges.” 

“But Dean, how else would you become educated?” Cas murmurs. He’s got a hell of a poker face, without even a twitch of his jaw to betray him. He flicks his eyes up from his cards, and Dean shivers underneath the weight of his gaze. There’s something sly and playful there, but something darker too, something that feels as dangerous as it is exhilarating. 

“Screw you,” Dean says, throwing down his shitty cards. “I’m plenty educated, got a G.E.D. that says so.” 

Cas puts down his own, much better, cards. “Man, fuck you,” Dean explodes, taking a retaliatory chug of his beer. “I don’t know where the hell you’re hiding these cards, but  _ no one  _ has that much good luck.”

Castiel raises one judgmental brow. “Where in god’s name would I be hiding these cards?” 

At first, Dean was walking on eggshells to try and preserve Cas’ feelings, and there are some days where Cas is morose, fingers passing through objects and his outline blurry. But those days are few and far between. Most of the time, Cas is Cas, which means he’s a snarky little bastard who sneers at anything resembling pity. 

“I don’t know, wherever ghosts keep nasty attitudes and their ghost weapons, what the hell do you want from me?” 

“You’re such a sore loser,” Cas comments. He picks up the cards to shuffle them. He moves deliberately, and if Dean didn’t know to look for it, he would miss the small moue of concentration pursing his lips. 

“Yeah, well, one of us is going to finish up this six-pack tonight, and it ain’t you. How’s that make you feel?” To punctuate his point, Dean takes a deep swig of his cheap beer. It tastes like piss going down, but enjoying it isn’t the point. 

“Like I’m not going to be burping up a shitty fermented beverage at two in the morning,” Castiel answers, deadpan. 

For a moment, all Dean can do is stare at him. Castiel stares back, eyes flat, but Dean spies a little twitch, almost imperceptible, at the corner of his lips. The twitch turns into a small tremble, turns into an actual laugh. 

It’s the first time Dean’s ever heard Castiel laugh, a real laugh, not a quiet exhalation or a short snicker. No, this is a full belly laugh, one that rumbles up from his diaphragm and erupts from his mouth. His whole body shakes with the force of it, head tilted back as the rich, deep sound rolls through the cheap motel room. It’s like melted chocolate, like honeyed whiskey, like the sun breaking through the storm clouds. 

Dean can’t help it. Castiel’s laugh is infectious, washing over him and sweeping him up in its tide. His throat and stomach ache with the feel of it, unfamiliar muscles worked past their endurance. He hasn’t laughed like this in weeks, maybe years. 

Cas doesn’t stop laughing, and Dean relishes it. It’s such a good sound, deep and throaty. It rumbles over him the same way that Baby’s engine purrs, to where he can almost feel it in his gut. Dean’s giddy, the kind of happy that hunters don’t get to feel, and if it weren’t for the ceiling, he thinks he might float away. Cas’ eyes crinkle when he laughs, and his smile goes wide and gummy. He’s so brilliant, so alive—

_ But you’re dead, _ Dean thinks helplessly.  _ But you’re dead. _

  
  


\---

“We’re not that far from California,” Cas says the next day, as they’re driving through the desolation of northern Nevada. 

“Yeah?” Dean asks, still a little rattled over what happened last night. “What’s that have to do with anything?” 

Cas taps his fingers against his chin, gaze firmly fixed on the landscape rolling past the window. The landscape hasn’t changed in the last few hours, which is how Dean knows that Cas is avoiding the question. “Cas?” he prompts, when the silence stretches past normal limits. 

“I just figured you might want to stop by and see Sam,” Cas says. 

Dean almost wrecks the car. 

He slams on the brakes, and it’s a good thing they’re alone on this stretch of highway, otherwise there might have been an actual wreck. Even with his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, he jolts forward. Cas, being non-corporeal, doesn’t have that problem, as he stays perfectly still. 

Dean is shaking with poorly suppressed anger as he turns to Cas. “What the hell do you know about Sam?” He does an even poorer job suppressing the anger in his voice. 

Cas’ face is twisted in confusion. “I just thought...you visited him before,” he finishes pathetically. 

“How do you—” Dean stops as some of the missing puzzle pieces click into place. “It was you,” he realizes, remembering how his possessions had been neatly lined up on the bedside table when he was fairly sure he’d scattered them throughout the room the night before. “You were there.” 

“Barely,” Cas admits. “I wasn’t strong enough to come through the Veil yet. I expended a huge amount of energy just moving those things around in your room. It was about a week before I was strong enough to have a real presence.” 

“Well, if you were there, then you know why I’m not going to see Sam.” Dean takes a deep breath and pushes down on the gas pedal. The Impala moves forward at a steady speed. 

“Dean, I’m sure Sam had his reasons—”

“Look, let’s get one thing straight.” Dean doesn’t slam on the brakes, but the urge is there. “You don’t know a damn thing about Sam, all right?” He clamps his jaw shut before anything else can come tumbling out. He thinks that will be the end of it, but then he says, “I guess you think Sam had his reasons for running away, huh? Or abandoning his family?” 

He can feel Cas’ eyes on him, but he refuses to look at him. He’s too afraid that his emotions will be splayed all over his face. “Sam had his fucking reasons. He didn’t want to be associated with any part of us, those were his fucking reasons.” 

“This life,” Cas says carefully, before pausing. He continues, hesitantly. “This life isn’t for everyone.” 

“Yeah, you know what, we’re not talking about this.” The problem isn’t that he doesn’t want to talk about Sam, the problem is that he wants to talk about Sam too much, and he still doesn’t know how he feels about it all. Apart from the obvious betrayal, there’s pride, grief, and jealousy all chasing themselves around in his chest. He can’t explain it to himself, let alone Castiel. 

The silence lasts long enough for the signs to tick down the miles to the California border (140, 115, 95). Cas plays with the box of cassettes, idly thumbing through his tapes. Dean can tell there’s something on his mind, but like hell is he going to bring it up. 

At mile marker 70, Cas finally speaks. “I wonder what happened to Gabriel.” At Dean’s sharp look, he shrugs. “It’s not like I know how that hunt ended. I’d like to think he made it out all right.” 

“Well?” Dean fishes out his phone from his jacket pocket. “Call him.”

Cas looks at his phone and then at him. “You want me to call my brother. And how exactly do you think a hunter is going to react to getting a call from his dead brother?” 

“Well, dial and then  _ I’ll _ call.” Before Cas can take the phone, Dean yanks it back towards him. “And don’t think I don’t know what you’re trying to do. You can’t fucking guilt-trip me into things.” 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Cas murmurs. His fingers brush against Dean’s palm as he takes the phone from him; Dean jolts at the contact. Cas quickly punches buttons, then hands the phone back to Dean. 

Dean puts it on speaker. Cas is shifting back and forth, fingers tapping nervously at his knee, which, for Cas, is like dancing in place. The phone dials once before a mechanical voice picks up.  _ The number you are trying to reach has been disconnected.  _

The call ends with an impersonal click. 

The silence in the car reaches deafening proportions. 

“Hunters switch phones all the time,” Dean finally says, once the awkwardness creeps down his spine. “You have any hubs that you use?” 

“No,” Castiel answers. He’s fading around the edges, his silhouette turning murky and foggy, despite the bright afternoon sun. Within a few seconds, he’s damn near translucent. “Gabriel and I generally don’t work well with others.” 

_ Imagine my shock,  _ rises to Dean’s lips, before he bites it back. Not helpful. 

“Well, look, I’ll put Bobby on it,” Dean tries. Anything to wipe that hangdog look off Cas’ face. “If anyone can suss out where Gabriel is, it’s Bobby.” 

“Sure,” Castiel mutters, voice dull and lifeless. After a moment, he lifts his head. “Thank you, Dean.” 

“Yeah, whatever,” Dean grunts. 

It’s absolutely a coincidence that they cross the California border and keep driving towards the coast. 

  
  


\---

Cas doesn’t talk much for the rest of the day. He doesn’t even venture an opinion when Dean says he’s going out to the bar. “Do you want to come?” Dean asks. 

The second he asks, he feels stupid. The feeling only intensifies as Cas looks at him, deadpan. “What could I possibly do at a bar?” 

“Just wondering, geez.” 

Cas waves a careless hand. “You go. Pour one out for me. I’m going to...do something.” He looks listlessly around the dingy room. “Catch up on my reading perhaps.” 

“All right. Well...call if you need anything.” Dean doesn’t know why he’s so reluctant to leave. It’s not as though Cas is begging for his company. In fact, Cas gives the impression he’d be perfectly happy to see Dean disappear for a while. Still, Dean hesitates at the door. 

“Have fun.” 

Dean carefully closes the door behind him, releasing a deep breath when the lock clicks. He makes his way to the Impala, but he doesn’t drive away. Instead, he pulls out his phone to make a call. 

His first call goes to Bobby, who sounds less than pleased at getting torn away from his bottle of rotgut. “The hell do you want? It’d better be a damn emergency.” 

“First you bitch at me for not calling, and then you bitch at me for calling. Make up your mind.” The silence on the end of the line sounds ominous, so Dean hurries to say, “I need a favor.” 

“Might want to try asking a little nicer then.” 

“Please, oh pretty please,” Dean begins, sarcasm dripping off his words, “can you do a favor for me?” Before Bobby has a chance to answer, he continues, “I need you to look someone up. Gabriel Novak.” 

“I’m guessing no relation to one Castiel Novak.” 

“His brother. Cas says they were supposed to work a job together, but he jumped the gun, and uh… Well, we all know how that turned out. Cas wants to know how he’s doing, but his number’s been disconnected.” 

“Never a good sign when that happens, but it could be that he’s laying low” Bobby mutters. His pen scratches in the background. After a short pause, he adds, “Could be that he’s dead too.” 

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re a glass half empty kind of man?” 

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re a pain in the ass?” 

“Yeah, yeah. Anyway, thanks, Bobby. You keep on keeping on.” 

Dean hangs up and spends several long minutes staring at his phone, thumb tapping restlessly at the screen. He can’t forget the desolation he felt the last time he tried this, but he’s like a junkie wanting that next hit. 

Finally, he gives in and calls. 

The phone rings four times before it finally picks up. Immediately, sounds of a party filter in through the speaker. Even on his end, the noise is almost overwhelming. “Dean?” Sam calls into the phone, his voice small and tinny. “Dean, is that you?” 

“Yeah,” Dean answers, though it takes him a few tries to croak the words out. “Yeah. Hey, Sam.” 

“Hey, hold on for a second,” Sam shouts. At least that’s what Dean thinks he says. Due to the noise, he can only catch about every other word. 

Dean listens as doors open and close in the background. Bit by bit, the noise recedes, until he can finally hear Sam’s voice unimpeded. “Sorry about that. We just got finished with mid-terms and we’re letting off some steam.” 

“Yeah. I can see that. Or not see, but, you know.” 

It hits Dean then, as he listens to Sam's awkward half-laugh, that he doesn’t know how to talk to his brother anymore. The realization sinks into his stomach like a stone, and suddenly, he can’t breathe around it. 

“So, uh, how’s school? You doing your homework?” 

Sam’s laugh sounds a little more genuine that time. “Yeah, I guess. I’ll find out in a few weeks whether or not it was worth anything.” 

“Ah, you’ll ace everything. Little nerd.” Dean relaxes back into the driver’s seat, fingers rubbing absently at the leather. 

“So,” Sam says, then says nothing else for a long while. When he finally speaks, it’s with hesitation in his voice. “How’s Dad?” 

For a second, Dean contemplates lying.  _ Dad’s great, he just stepped out for a few minutes, we’re headed over to hunt a wendigo tomorrow.  _

But he doesn’t want to lie. Not now, not when this is the first time he’s spoken to his brother in months. “I don’t know,” Dean admits, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “He took off a few months ago; I haven’t heard from him since.” He doesn’t mention the dozens of messages clogging up Dad’s inbox. The box isn’t full, which means Dad’s listening to them, but he’s not bothering to spend the thirty seconds it would take to call him back and assure him that he’s fine. 

Dean’s not nearly pathetic enough to mention that to his brother. 

Sam doesn’t say anything, which is probably wise. “And you?” he asks, after a few seconds. “Are you…?” 

“Family business, Sammy,” Dean answers, with more cheer than he feels. “Job needs doing.” 

“Yeah. Sure.” An undercurrent a mile deep runs through Sam’s words. It brings back to mind the countless screaming matches between Sam and Dad, when they would shake the cheap motel walls with their shouting, when he was left to try and play peacemaker between these two forces of nature. 

It’s with obvious effort that Sam asks, “So, run into anything good lately?” 

“Same old, same old,” Dean says. “We found a black dog a few weeks ago back in Idaho; that was kind of cool.” 

“We? You hunting with Bobby or Lee?” 

Dean swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. There’s no reason for him to feel ashamed, none at all, and yet… He has the absurd urge to protect what he’s doing. It’s not for Sam’s perusal, or for Bobby’s. Whatever weird little partnership he’s formed with Cas, it’s  _ his  _ and no one else’s. 

“Nope. Ran into someone else a while back. We’ve been taking on cases together.” 

“Yeah?” The interest in Sam’s voice sounds genuine. “Whoever they are, must be good.” 

Dean thinks about Cas’ easy recollection of facts, his unerring ability to suss out the true nature of supernatural creatures, his quicksilver wit and intelligence. He thinks about Cas’ sarcasm and quips, how his eyebrow rises like it’s trying to kiss his hairline. He thinks about Cas’ rare smile and the explosive force of his laugh. 

“Yeah,” Dean answers, his voice dipping into introspection. “Yeah, he’s not bad.” 

“That’s good,” Sam says. He sounds a little too understanding and compassionate, and normally, Dean would balk at the implied pity in his voice. But now, all he can feel is the soft, warm glow in his chest. “It’s good that you have someone there with you.” 

“Yeah, god knows I can’t tie my shoes without someone’s help,” Dean mutters. Then, because he truly doesn't want to fight, he rushes on before Sam has a chance to protest. “Anyway, we’re headed through to your way. Thought we might stop by.” 

Sam probably doesn’t mean the pause to sound as damning as it does. 

“I don’t know,” he finally says. Dean can taste the rejection dripping from every word. “It’s just that things are really busy here, and I live in the dorms, and I don’t want you to be bored—” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, humiliation and hurt coloring his cheeks and his voice. “No, I got it. Stupid question. You, uh, you take care of yourself.” 

“Dean,” Sam says before he can hang up the phone. “I’m not…” Whatever he wanted to say, it sputters out halfway through. 

“No, I get it. You’re doing the whole college thing. I don’t want to mess you up.” 

Sam doesn’t want Dean dragging their dirty history into his pristine campus and his squeaky clean identity. He thinks suddenly about Sam and his group of friends, looking like they just walked off the cover of an Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue. Dean’s life is filthy, messy, terrifying. Sam’s built a whole new world that’s the antithesis of what Dean does. Understandably, he doesn’t want Dean putting his grubby little fingers on it. 

“Dean, it’s not that,” Sam protests, but it  _ is _ that. 

“Look, I’ll let you get back to your party. You deserve to unwind a little. Maybe you’ll even get to kiss a girl tonight or something.” The laugh he forces sounds brittle even to his own ears. “Be seeing you, Sammy,” he says, even though he’s sure he won’t. 

“No, wait, Dean,” Sam protests, but Dean’s already hanging up the phone. He clenches his fist around it, running his knuckles over his thumb. For so long, he and Sam were all the other had. Sam was his world. It was his job to make sure he was fed, his job to make sure he was happy. And now… Well, it’s clear that Sam’s moved on and Dean is just the loser stuck in a rut because he can’t think of anything else to do. 

He walks back into the motel room. His joints feel weird, like they’re not quite sliding into the right grooves. On the bed farthest from the door, Cas is curled up on his side, like he’s actually going to fall asleep. He doesn’t even bother to look up when Dean shuts and locks the door. 

“That was a quick bar trip,” is all he says. 

Dean kicks off his boots and shrugs out of his jacket. “Turned out that I didn’t much feel like going out.” He doesn’t think about Sam returning to his party without a care in the world. “I decided I would just come back here.” 

“You can turn the TV on. I’m afraid that I’m not great company tonight.”

“That’s fine, I don’t want to talk.” Dean plucks the remote off of the bedside table. He flips through channels until he finds an inoffensive documentary. The narrator’s voice drones on. Within a few lines, it’s sent Dean into a stupor. 

Dean looks at his bed and then at Cas’ unresponsive back. He thinks about sharing a bed with Sam, their knees knocking together as they both grew. He thinks about the hope and despair on Cas’ face as his call went unanswered. 

Without thinking about it too much, he slides onto Cas’ bed, scooting forward until he’s curved behind Cas, almost like two parentheses. Dean catches the swift jerk of surprise in Cas’ posture, but he doesn’t say anything as Dean moves closer. 

If Cas were alive, Dean would be able to feel the heat coming off his body. As it is, it’s like lying next to a cool slab of marble, but without the mass. There’s no real tangibility to Cas. If Dean closes his eyes, he could almost forget Cas is there at all. 

He doesn’t want to forget. 

He slides his fingers forward, inching across the scant space separating them, until his fingertips hover a breath away from Cas. Dean deliberately reaches forward, pressing into the flat spot between Cas’ shoulders. 

His fingers sink into Cas’ incorporeal body and an electric jolt rockets through his hand and up to his arm. He gasps at the sensation, pulling back until he and Cas are fully separated. 

Cas flips over. The mattress doesn’t move. “Dean, what are you doing?” he asks. His voice is soft and his eyes are dark. The smudge of dirt is still on his cheek and Dean’s seized by the strange desire to wipe it off. 

“I don’t know,” Dean whispers back. There’s something vulnerable swelling inside him, something he tries to keep hidden from the world for fear it’ll be destroyed. But Cas won’t hurt him. He knows that, the same way he knows that Bobby favors Johnny Walker Black when he can get it and that Sam’s birthday is May 2. 

“Okay.” Cas keeps his voice soft, like he’s trying to soothe a spooked animal. “Okay, that’s fine.” 

Dean blinks slowly. Cas’ eyes are almost luminous, the blue deep and intoxicating. “You looked sad,” Dean finally says, ignoring the fact that he probably looks sad too, that he feels sad. 

“Yeah.” Cas blinks, then stretches out his hand to lay, palm out, towards Dean. “Yeah, I guess I was.” 

Dean reaches out towards Cas, his own palm facing him. He keeps a careful whisper of a thought between them so that they never touch. His skin aches with loneliness, but he never moves. He stays there, on his side, staring at Cas, their hands a careful inch away from each other, until he finally falls asleep. 

  
  


-_-_-_-_-_-_-

  
  
  


They leave in the morning. Cas never brings up going to California and Dean never broaches the topic. Instead, they meander north, up past the border of Oregon, before they take a sharp detour west, towards the coastline. There have been reports of strange lights and sounds near the Hecata Head Lighthouse, mostly around the old keeper’s house. One tourist even claimed he was chased down the stairs by the spirit, culminating in a broken leg and a hysterical police report. 

“Spirit,” Cas says, flipping through Dean’s phone. “Looks like the old keeper’s house was converted to a bed and breakfast, and it’s got its very own ghost. Says here that multiple people have seen the image of an old woman in late Victorian garb wandering through the halls. Lore says she’s the wife of one of the keepers, looking for her lost daughter who drowned.” 

“Don’t suppose they included a name in that.” 

“Of course not. The names of wives and children weren’t considered important enough to be included in the official records. Blame the patriarchy.”

“All right. Find out who our old lady is, salt and burn, and we call it a day.” The leather cuff on his wrist feels heavy as he says it. He can’t help but be reminded that it’s a thin barrier of flame separating Cas from the hereafter.

Cas doesn’t appear to be too concerned. “Maybe we can spend a few days at the beach. Or I hear there’s great shopping in Florence.” 

“You don’t swim, and I live in a car.” Dean tosses a glance Cas’ way. “Plus, I can’t imagine you’re jonesing for any sort of material possessions.” 

“Doesn’t mean I don’t like to look,” Cas comments, studying the view with interest as Dean cruises through the small town of Florence, Oregon. It looks like a picturesque coastal hamlet, complete with small, tourist-trap shops proclaiming wine, salt water taffy, and antiques. When he parks the car outside the Town Hall building and gets out, he can taste the salt breeze wafting in from the ocean. 

“All right. If we can wrap this case up in twenty-four hours, I’ll buy you a drink.” 

“Dean, I don’t—” 

“I  _ know _ you don’t drink. Jesus, Cas, live a little.” 

He looks over at Cas, a devilish smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Wow,” Cas finally says. He stares at Dean, mouth twisting in the pout that means he’s trying not to laugh. “Fucking wow. I wonder what you say to deaf people.” 

“Aw, come on, Cas!” Dean calls, jogging up the stairs after him. “That was funny!” 

  
  


\---

It’s nice when a hunt comes together seamlessly. He and Cas sift through the records in the basement of town hall, alternately dodging questions from the well-meaning, yet utterly nosy clerk who keeps ‘just checking up’ on them.

“Does she think we’ll steal things?” Cas asks, turning away as Dean rips out the page with the relevant information and stuffs it into his jacket pocket. 

“Who knows. Let’s go.” Dean almost reaches out and grabs Cas’ shoulder to steer him towards the exit, but stops himself at the last minute. 

He’s been doing that more and more, these little lapses of memory. It doesn't hurt that Cas has been getting stronger lately. He’s capable of picking up almost any inanimate object and is strong enough to read a book all night. To the uninitiated, he just looks like a regular guy most of the time. In fact, the waitress at the diner where they’ve stopped for dinner gives them a weird look when Cas says he doesn’t want anything, not even a coffee. 

“But he’ll have a slice of pie,” Dean tells her, winking. She flushes before scurrying away, and he grins after her. 

Cas stares at him, looking unamused. “Shall I go after the ghost on my own?” When Dean raises a questioning eyebrow, he points with his chin at the retreating back of the waitress. “Would you like some alone time?”

“No,” Dean scoffs. Strange, but the thought of flirting hadn’t even really occurred to him. The wink had come mostly as a reflex. 

“Then is it possible that you ordered me a slice of pie so that you could have two slices of pie?” 

“Shut up,” Dean mutters, staring at the purloined page from the records. “Says here that we’re looking for the ghost of Esther Mayfield. Died in 1899, buried in Hope Creek Cemetery.” He stuffs the page back into his jacket pocket, settling back into his booth and sighing with satisfaction as the waitress returns, bearing Cas’ slice of pie. “Don’t you just love it when a plan comes together?” 

Less than five hours later, he’s eating those words as he grapples with one pissed-off old lady spirit while simultaneously trying to dig the last foot into her grave. “Cas!” he shouts, grunting with effort as the iron shovel blade slices through her flickering outline. “A little help?”

“What am I supposed to do, throw salt at her?” Cas’ voice, while tight with stress, still holds a bite of irritation. 

“I don’t know, maybe you could be careful with it?”

“Great idea!” 

Fortunately, their bickering is interrupted by the reappearance of the ghost. She lunges at Dean, screaming, just as the shovel blade breaks through the top of the coffin. Dean springs out of the way, dodging the kerosene Cas dumps on the bones. “Salt!” Cas calls, but there’s no need; Dean is already haphazardly shaking the container over the bones. He jumps and hooks his fingers onto the edge of the grave just seconds before Cas tosses the matchbook onto the coffin. 

With a shriek, the ghost freezes, before burning away to nothing. Dean rolls onto his back, staring up at the stars overhead. He pants, his breath turning to fog in the nippy midnight air. “Not too bad,” he finally says, easing up off the cold ground. “Though we’ve got to figure out some way for you to toss some salt around.” 

Castiel stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Sure, like it’s my fault. That’s awfully prejudicial.” 

“Whatever.” Dean twists, groaning as his spine pops in a series of alarming snaps. “Let me cover this up, and then we can go back to the motel.” 

By the time he finishes shoveling the dirt back onto the grave, he’s exhausted and aching. Even Cas is looking a little faded around the edges. “Come on,” Dean says, slogging his way towards the Impala. “I just want a shower and a drink.” 

He holds onto that thought on the short drive back to the motel.  _ Shower and a drink.  _ He makes it into a jingle that repeats through his head in a tuneless loop. He unlocks the room on autopilot, conscious only of Cas behind him and the cold seeping into his bones. Lousy Pacific Northwest weather. 

He slaps at the light fixtures, frowning when nothing happens. He flicks them up and down twice before his instincts take over. “Cas,” he murmurs, reaching into his waistband for his gun. 

Before he can make a move, the bedside lamp blazes into life. He flinches away from the light, his pupils aching. It only takes him a few moments to recover, but in their line of work, a few moments can be deadly. 

Dean blinks furiously, trying to clear the dark spots from his vision. A figure sits at the head of one of the beds. Dean’s gun rises in reflex, but he drops it when the figure’s features become clear. 

“Getting a little sloppy there, Dean,” his father says, rising from the bed. He tucks his hands in his jacket, looking meaningfully over Dean’s shoulder. “So, who’s your friend?” 

  
  


~*~*~*~*~*~*


	7. Chapter 7

~*~*~*~*~*~*

Dean freezes. 

It’s been almost a year since he’s seen his father. It’s been at least six months since he talked to him. And now, his father is in his motel room, like he belongs there, looking suspiciously at Cas, who’s glaring suspiciously right back at him. 

His previous exhaustion is long forgotten as every nerve in his body flares to high alert. 

“Hey Dad. Long time no see,” Dean can’t help adding. 

Dad doesn’t reply. He just stares down Cas with the same kind of intensity that could have a ten-year-old Dean almost crapping his pants. Cas returns the look with an expression that could mean he has a faint bellyache. “Dad, this is Cas.” 

Dad’s shoulder jerks like he’s going to hold out his hand to shake. Panic flares through Dean; Cas can’t give out handshakes. Luckily, he underestimated exactly how rude Cas is comfortable being. Cas looks down at John Winchester’s hand with disdain, his nose wrinkling. 

Handshakes won’t be a problem. On the other hand, if Cas doesn’t cool it, Dean’s going to have to worry about his Dad throwing punches. 

“What are you doing here, Dad?” he asks, trying to redirect everyone’s attention. “Is everything all right?” 

“What, a man can’t stop in to see his son?” 

_Apparently you can’t_ , Dean doesn’t say. Something of his sentiment must be reflected in his eyes, however, as Dad’s mouth twists downward in a frown. 

“Nothing’s wrong. I just heard you were in town and thought I’d stop in to see how you’re doing. Heard through the grapevine that you were keeping some interesting company.” His hard eyes flick to Cas, and even the semblance of friendship is gone. 

“Well, someone has to,” Cas replies, his upper lip lifting in a sneer. 

“Friend of a friend of a friend told me you were hunting with Castiel Novak,” Dad says, his voice hard. 

Dean’s long since given up trying to understand his father’s complex network of ‘buddies’ and ‘pals’ and ‘favors’. Most of the time, it works to his advantage; most everyone in the game recognizes the Winchester name, and they’re willing to do him favors they wouldn’t do for other people. This is the first time it’s worked against him, and he has no idea who the rat might be. 

For one sickening moment, he thinks Bobby might have told John, but he dismisses the idea as quickly as it arrives. Bobby wouldn’t rat him out. 

“Is it a crime to have a partner these days?” Dean forces joviality into his voice. It falls horribly flat in the tense atmosphere. 

“It is when they’re dead.” 

Dean reels back like he’s been slapped, but John continues on. “Word on the street is that both Novak siblings disappeared after a hunt six months ago. Wouldn’t make any sense unless they were dead, which begs the question, what are you doing with a dead man, Dean?” 

“It’s not what you think,” Dean begins. This time, he slots himself between Dad and Cas and doesn't bother to be subtle about it. 

“The hell it’s not!” his father yells, the famous Winchester temper surfacing. “Dean, I don’t know what the hell this thing’s done to get in your head, but it’s not human! Now, you need to find whatever’s tethering it here and burn it before something worse happens!” 

“Cas isn’t like that!” Dean shouts. He’s horribly aware of the leather cuff circling his wrist, how vulnerable that connection is, how easily it can all be extinguished. No. He can’t. He won’t lose Cas. Not even to Dad. 

“Dean, open your eyes! Hunter or not, he’s a ghost, and you know how they all turn out! Maybe not right now, maybe not even in a week’s time, but eventually, he will turn bad; they all do. And when that happens, he’s going to tear your heart out and not think twice about it. So end him now, while you still can!” 

“Cas helps me,” Dean insists, but his words sound childish even to him. “Dad, he’s saved my life I don’t know how many times. We just got back from burning a spirit earlier tonight—”

“Exactly,” his father says, drawing himself up like he’s proved his point. “You just got back from burning a spirit. Because that’s what we do. We burn ghosts. We don’t go around making friends with them!” He points an accusing finger at Cas. “Whatever he was before, whatever he’s convinced you he is now, he’s not human, which means you can’t trust him. So please, Dean. Help me help you.” 

Dean looks helplessly over his shoulder at Cas. Castiel meets his eyes steadily, never once wavering. Dean remembers the first night they spoke, when he was fully ready to burn Cas and send him on to the afterlife, and Cas was so tired, so defeated. 

_It’s cold and lonely and confusing_. 

Cas just wants to be alive again. 

Dean’s never felt more alive than in the moments he’s with Cas. 

“Look, Dad.” He squares up his shoulders, summoning every ounce of strength he possesses. A single bead of sweat creeps down the back of his neck to disappear in the collar of his shirt. “I know you’re just trying to look out for me, but I trust Cas, all right? I trust him with my life. And he’s been here for me when a hell of a lot of other people haven’t been.” 

His dad. Sam. They both turned their backs on him, for one reason or another. Cas has been the only one who’s been there for him, who hasn’t decided to up and leave. 

“And I know what he is, and I know what could happen. But I trust Cas to tell me if he thinks that’s happening, and I trust Cas to be the first one to light the match if he thinks he’s going bad. I _trust_ him.” 

His father’s lip curls in disgust. “I don’t know why I ever thought you would be capable of making a good decision. So help me god, I’ll burn everything you own if I have to.” 

He steps forward and, out of habit, Dean takes a step back. That doesn’t give his father pause, but the sudden wind howling through the room makes him stop. 

Cas pushes past Dean, his face set and implacable. Cold rage shines from his eyes, and his hair waves in the impossible breeze. “Mr. Winchester,” he says, voice cold and commanding, “Dean’s made his wishes perfectly clear. I think it’s time you left.” 

Cas might be intimidating, but John Winchester didn’t gain his reputation by being easily threatened. He takes another step forward. Dean recognizes the flask in his hands. 

“Cas, look out!” he shouts, giving Cas time enough to move away before the salt hits him. 

The wind picks up, shrieking at the doors and windows. It tugs at Dean’s clothes and whips past his face, bringing tears to his eyes. “Leave now,” Cas orders, staring at John, “before I show you exactly what I’m capable of.” 

Prior to this night, if someone had asked Dean what Cas’ potential power was, he would have shrugged and answered that sometimes, when he’s feeling helpful, Cas carries the bags to the car. He hadn’t thought that Cas possessed enough juice for anything more than parlor tricks. Now, however, with the wind at almost hurricane force, he doubts his initial impression. 

His father shoots him an expression caught halfway between apprehension and disgust and takes a step back. Dean understands then that he’s shattered something between them into so many tiny pieces, there’s no way to get them all back. 

Panic grips his chest as he thinks about his father walking away from him. The part of him that’s eternally eight years old and desperate for his father’s approval wails and begs to throw himself down at John’s feet and beg for mercy. 

But the only way to gain his father’s approval would be to gank Cas and he can’t — he won’t — do that. 

“Just go,” Dean says, and everything stops. The wind, the pressure building in his ears, the shrieks… Everything stops. The only sound in the room are the rasps of Dean and John’s breathing. 

“Dean, you can’t—”

“Dad, please. Just go. “

His father’s expression is more disgust than worry. He looks at Dean for a long moment before he shakes his head and turns around. 

The sight of his father’s back breaks something in him, but he manages to hold in his gasp. He stays there, shaking, as his father walks out the door, slamming it behind him. 

The sound echoes through the room, windows rattling. Dean stares at the door for several long minutes, trembling and panting. He feels as though he’s just fought off eight werewolves, and it’s taking all of his willpower to remain upright. 

In the distance, he hears the sound of an engine revving and tires screeching against wet pavement. At that point, his stomach clenches. He has just a moment’s warning, something hot and sour rushing up his throat, before he sprints to the toilet. He retches into the bowl and winces at the wet splash echoing through the tiny room. 

He feels Castiel looming behind him. “Cas, go away,” he croaks, resting his overheated forehead against the cool porcelain of the toilet. 

“Dean, can we—” 

“Leave me alone!” Dean’s fingers curl around the curve of the bowl. “Jesus, Cas, can you please, just for one second—” 

He never hears Cas depart. But he feels his absence, like someone was pressed against his side, warming him, only to withdraw and leave him cold. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Things are tense between them for the next few days. Cas never fully disappears, but he’s hazier than Dean remembers him being. Dean doesn’t catch him trying to manipulate any objects; he has the sinking suspicion that Cas wouldn’t be able to lift a pen, let alone some of the other objects he’s been moving lately.

With the ghost gone, they pack up and leave Florence the next day. It’s a shame; Dean was almost looking forward to vacationing in the small town for at least a day or so. He could have pictured walking along the boardwalk, watching the sea lions, all the while with Cas next to him. Cas would have loved the shop that sold original preserves and honey. 

But he can’t look at Cas straight on. Every time he tries, his eyes slide over him. And for the first time, Cas doesn’t seem interested in staring straight through him. 

He can’t think of anything to say, so he says nothing, and the silence between them festers. His tapes provide some distraction in the background, but nothing makes up for the gaping emptiness in his chest. By the end of the third day, he and Cas are holed up in yet another motel room, deliberately ignoring each other. Cas is at the opposite side of the room, pretending to read, while Dean is at the small table, pretending to look through a variety of newspapers. Out of an excess of boredom and pique, Dean calls Bobby, just to hear a semi-friendly voice. 

“What do you want?” 

“Hi Bobby, great to hear your voice too,” Dean says sourly. 

“Look, I’m right in the middle of something, so is this important or...?” 

Dean would believe him — a lot of hunters beside himself rely on Bobby for information or backup — but there’s a canned laugh track in the background that says Bobby is a liar, liar, pants on fire. 

“Tori about ready to come on?” 

“Shut up. What do you want?”

Dean can’t help but cut his eyes to Cas, who is busy looking anywhere but back at him. He focuses his eyes straight ahead, clenching his jaw and ignoring the ache in it. “Well, I was on a semi-vacation. Can’t find any jobs, so I was wondering if you had anything.” 

Bobby grunts at him. “You that hard up for something to do?” 

Bobby’s fishing for information, and the knowledge just pisses Dean off even more. “Look, you got something or not?” 

“Yeah, yeah, keep your pants on,” Bobby grouses. The sounds of the TV dim in the background as Bobby moves deeper into his house. “Elk Springs, Colorado. Locals there reported an unscheduled meteor shower just hours before all the cattle in a field dropped dead. A few days later, some of the residents reported ‘thick, reddish water’ coming out of their pipes.”

Dean swallows. “Demons?” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Cas’ head jerk up. 

Bobby sighs. “That’s what all the signs point to. Now, this is strictly a reconnaissance mission. If you run into anything nasty, you call for backup.” 

“Bobby, you can take the kid gloves off. I’m a big boy, been hunting for a while now.” 

“You shut up and listen!” Bobby snaps, actual heat in his voice. “This isn’t some stupid werewolf or a wendigo or something that’s driven by instinct. These are demons. They’re smart, ancient, and they don’t give a piss about humans or anything else, and there’s precious few ways to hurt them. You can exorcise them and send them back to hell, but they’re not going to stand there quietly while you do it.”

Having worked himself up into a temper, Bobby rolls on. “Better hunters than you have run afoul of demons. You want to know where they are? Try looking right beside you!” 

Obediently, Dean’s eyes glance towards Cas, even though Bobby’s news doesn’t come as a surprise to him. He remembers the croak in Cas’ voice as he confessed, all those weeks ago, what he’d been hunting when he…

“Ever since the seance, I’ve been poking around the Novaks, and let me tell you, according to everyone who worked with them, they were some of the best in the business. You know where they are now? They’re both dead!” 

A low, pained gasp drags Dean’s attention away from Bobby’s tirade. “Oh fuck,” he mutters to himself, seeing Castiel hunch forward, his hands buried in his hair. “Dammit, Bobby!” he snaps, hanging up the phone. He tosses it somewhere behind him as he walks across the room to where Cas is curled in on himself. 

“Cas? Talk to me.” 

“Leave me alone,” Cas gasps, rocking back and forth. His forehead is pressed into his knees and his fingers twist in his hair. He’s worse than Dean’s ever seen him, flickering and sputtering, fading in and out of focus. Even when he’s not blinking in and out of existence, he’s almost transparent. With a low thrill of horror, Dean realizes he can see the wall clearly through Castiel. 

“Cas, you need to calm down—”

Castiel bolts straight upright, hands clenched into fists at his side. “Shut the fuck up and leave me alone!” 

His fury hits Dean like a slap, causing him to stumble backwards a few steps. The walls of the motel actually shake, and a thin crack appears in the ceiling. Cas disappears for a second before he slams back into view, just like…

Just like every other ghost Dean’s ever hunted. 

His father’s words echo in his head. _He’s not human, which means you can’t trust him_. If he tries hard enough, Dean can almost dredge up John’s sneer to accompany the words. The leather cuff is tight around his wrist, like a shackle. 

Then Cas crumples and he’s just _Cas_ again, just the weird, dorky, annoying guy who remains at the forefront of Dean’s mind, who occasionally makes an appearance in his shower jerkoffs. Just Cas, who is so very alone, who just heard news that would tear Dean apart. 

“It’s my fault,” Cas moans, looking at Dean pleadingly. “It’s my fault, it’s my fault, I wasn’t there for him, I couldn’t help him, I didn’t listen to him, and it’s my fault, it’s my fault—” 

“Cas, it’s okay, it’s going to be okay, you’re okay…” Dean pushes aside the dozens of worries now crowding for control in his brain and moves forward. His arms are already opening, ready to envelop Cas in a crushing hug, ready to hold him until he stops shaking, ready to bury his nose in Cas’ hair—

The realization hits him and Dean stutters to a halt. 

Cas is _dead_. He’s never going to be able to hold Cas, to hug him, to sling an arm around his shoulders as they walk down the street. Cas is never going to stitch him up; Cas is never going to shower. Cas is never going to kiss him or do any of the other dozens of things which Dean has dreamed of. 

Cas is dead. And from what Dean’s seen, he’s starting to lose control. 

\---

“Please don’t,” Cas outright begs when Dean tells him where they’re going and why. “Dean, please don’t. Whatever else you want to do, but please. Don’t go there.” 

“People are dying,” Dean says heavily. Bobby called him earlier to tell him that the first fatality had been recorded in Elk Springs. “This is the job.” 

“It doesn’t have to be _your_ job!” Cas tries to swing around in front of Dean, blocking his way to the car, but Dean neatly sidesteps around him. Not that Cas’ blockade method would be effective anyway; it’s hard to block someone when your body is permeable. “Dean, you’ve never hunted a demon before. You don’t know how to handle them.” 

Cas is absolutely right, which only serves to irritate Dean. Without thinking, he slams the Impala’s trunk closed and looks at Castiel, who still seems to struggle with remaining solid. No way Cas could handle a salt and burn right now, when he’s glimmering at the edges, the sunlight cruelly exposing his weaknesses. 

“And you’re the expert at handling demons?” 

The words hit exactly where he wants them to. Cas actually takes a half-step back, hurt and betrayal blooming across his face. Then, he gathers control of himself and comes roaring back, his expression knit into a thundercloud. 

“I thought I was, and look what happened!” Cas shoves himself in front of Dean, to where Dean either has to stop or walk straight through him. “Dean, _you’re not ready for this_. Please, _please_ , don’t do this.” 

For a moment, Dean considers capitulating to Cas. They don’t have to do this. The beauty of hunting lies in their ability to go anywhere and do anything. They could swing down to Texas and work their way through the border towns. They could spend a weekend in Vegas, getting politely and not so politely asked to leave various casinos. They could go up to Sioux Falls and hang with Bobby for a while, though Dean’s not sure there aren’t at least a thousand things in Bobby’s house that would accidentally obliterate Cas. 

But there are people dying in Elk Springs, and it’s Dean’s job to save them. Maybe if John hadn’t come to their room in Florence, maybe if Dean hadn’t pushed Cas away that night, maybe if Cas hadn’t overheard Bobby saying Gabriel was dead, maybe if Cas hadn’t lost his temper… There are thousands of paths, and this is the one Dean is taking. 

“We’re going to Elk Springs,” Dean says, opening the door to the Impala like a challenge. “If you don’t like it, you can leave.” 

He doesn’t look up after he says that, too afraid that Cas will have taken him at his word. It isn’t until the engine starts to rumble that he dares to look over at the passenger seat. 

He breathes a sigh of relief. Cas is still there, though he’s fainter than ever. Dean thinks he could pass his fingers through him without feeling anything more than perhaps a cold, damp fog. 

“Cas,” he tries, making his voice softer, “it’s going to be okay.” 

Cas doesn’t answer him. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Elk Springs is like most other small towns, in that the police officers seem completely flummoxed by a dead body sitting in the hospital morgue. They’re probably more used to chasing bears out of downtown and picking up persistent drunks every Saturday night. Dean takes their statements and mutters some platitudes about not understanding human nature, then takes his leave of the police station. 

He feels Cas’ absence like a wound. 

He asks around and eventually narrows all of the signs and clues to a single warehouse in the middle of the town’s dilapidated industrial district. Dean nods and listens and wonders why it’s always the deserted warehouses that monsters tend to congregate in. 

He goes back to the motel and finds Cas pacing around the room. He’d decided against joining Dean, for which Dean breathed a small sigh of relief. Cas is still hovering between the Veil and the tangible world, and the strain is starting to show. Dean wonders whether there’s somewhere they can go to recharge him, give him a boost. He wonders if Cas’ deteriorating physical state is caused by his seeming mental decline or if it’s the other way around. 

“Demons are at a warehouse on the edge of town,” Dean says by way of greeting. 

Cas turns towards him, his eyes wild. “Good. Now call someone else and tell them that. It’s time for us to leave.” 

“No. We don’t know how many are here, and we don’t know what they want. We’d be sending someone in blind.” 

Cas’ arm twitches like he wants to reach out and grab him. At the last moment, he stops himself. “Please,” is all he asks, his voice weak and defeated. 

He already knows Dean’s answer. 

“I’m going.” 

Castiel lifts his chin, defeated but still stubborn. “Well, I’m going with you.” 

Despite the fact that Cas doesn’t look like he could fight off the Easter Bunny, much less a demon, Dean’s glad to have him along. “Well, all right then.” 

The drive to the warehouse is made in silence. Dean parks the Impala a few blocks away and opts to take the remainder of the journey on foot. Nothing against his Baby, but she is loud, and he wants to fly under the radar as much as possible. Before he leaves, he pulls out the holy water, and the shotgun loaded with rock salt. The pages of the exorcism are in his back pocket. Even though this is just a recon mission, he wants to be prepared for every eventuality. 

Cas falls into step behind him. He still has yet to lose his mournful, hangdog look, but Dean pushes that concern from his mind. He can’t worry about Cas and do his job. 

He walks on quiet feet to the perimeter of the warehouse. No sounds emerge from within, but that doesn’t mean anything. He holds his breath as he creeps beyond the threshold and into the cavernous interior. 

Inside, everything is dark, with the lingering dampness that all abandoned places seem to take on. The scent of mildew hangs heavy in the air and only gets stronger the further along Dean moves. His feet crunch against the concrete, and he keeps his breaths shallow, all too aware of how even the smallest sounds echo in these places. Behind him, Cas moves, unencumbered by such small worries as breathing. 

The more Dean investigates, the more he’s willing to believe he’s wrong. There’s nothing out of the ordinary here, nothing to indicate anyone other than himself has disturbed this warehouse. Dean ventures forward, ignoring the small stirring of fear that urges him to flee back to the safety of the motel room. Even though all signs point otherwise, his gut tells him that he’s not alone here. 

He stops when he hears something carried through the halls. Just a whisper, the suggestion of noise, but it’s confirmation that they’re not alone. Dean adjusts his grip on his shotgun and moves forward, towards the sound. Behind him, he can feel the anxiety rolling off of Castiel in waves, but he blocks it from his awareness. 

The sounds become clearer as he creeps forward. His untrained ear can pick out the sounds of Latin, but there’s not a hope in hell of understanding it. On instinct, Dean glances back at Cas, who’s mouthing the words, his forehead knit in concentration. 

Fucking figures that Cas speaks Latin. 

Dean ignores Cas and concentrates on moving forward unseen. Behind him, he can hear Cas whispering the words in a strange echo. Dean holds his breath as he pokes his head around the corner. 

In the center of the room, sitting cross-legged in front of a small fire, is a blonde woman. Dean can’t see her face, but she doesn’t look like she’d be any taller than 5’4” standing. The Latin is coming from her, smooth and melodic syllables rolling off her tongue. 

Dean’s heart is pounding furiously in his chest, hammering at his sternum in a frantic bid for escape. This _has_ to be the demon. For the first time in his life, he’s looking at a demon. The shotgun grip is slick in his sweaty hand. He’s frozen. He can’t move forward but moving back seems too vulnerable. 

Suddenly, Cas gasps. “Dean,” he says, his voice an urgent whisper, “Dean, I know her, I’ve seen her before, Dean it’s a _trap_ —”

Pain, the likes of which he’s never felt before, grips Dean’s chest, sending him to his knees. His gun clatters out of his grip to fall harmlessly to the floor. Cas reaches out towards him. His fingers pass through Dean’s sleeve with a jolt, like someone just tossed a glass of water over him. 

“I was wondering when one of you hunters would show up,” the demon comments. She turns around, her disdainful eyes lighting on Dean. She’s sorority-girl pretty, or she would be, if her eyes weren’t pitch black. “Honestly,” she says, walking forward, “you’re like roaches. Where there’s one, there’s always others.” 

Her eyes flick to Castiel, immediately dismissive, but then her eyes widen. “You,” she says, surprise turning her light voice guttural. “What are you—” 

“Cas, what the hell is going on?” Dean asks, just before another twist of pain leaves him gasping. 

He looks up to see the demon’s hand clenched into a fist. Dean feels a little put out when he realizes that the majority of her focus remains on Cas, despite the fact that she’s currently squeezing his lungs. The demon’s expression flips between fear and triumph. “I’m going to kill your friend,” she sneers, “and then—”

Latin rolls out of Cas’ mouth, the syllables strange and unknown. A shiver runs down Dean’s spine at the sound of it. Cas sounds forceful and commanding, and Dean can tell there’s inherent power in the words. It’s too bad they have no effect on the demon. 

She flinches at the first sound, but, after a few seconds, straightens. Victory gleams in her eyes. “Oh, you poor bastard,” she breathes. “You can’t get it up, can you?”

“Dean, the exorcism!” 

Dean’s pain-ragged brain remembers the existence of the paper in his back pocket. He forces his arm to reach back, numb fingers fumbling at the edges of the pages before he pulls them forward. 

“Not so fast,” the demon sneers. A quick breeze roars through the warehouse. The bulk of it is focused directly on Dean’s hands, tugging at the pages. Dean tries, but there’s no way he can hold onto them. Fear grips his heart as he watches the paper flutter away from him. 

That exorcism was his last hope. Cas can’t perform it, and Dean never bothered to try and memorize it, too certain that he’d have time to do the exorcism from a place of safety, not from in front of the demon itself. 

Fuck, they were right, Bobby and Cas — he’s not ready for this, there’s no way he could have been prepared for this, and now he’s going to die, alone and forgotten in this warehouse, and Cas is really going to be alone then—

“You’ve given us exactly what we wanted,” the demon croons, twisting her fingers until Dean gasps. “I’m going to rip your spine out here and then—” Her black eyes shift to Cas. “Then, we’re going to have everything.” 

Dying, he’s dying, he can’t—

From far away, he hears Cas’ voice. “Dean, I’m so sorry. I’m so, I’m so sorry.” 

_It’s fine_ , Dean would say if he had breath, and maybe he would say something else too, but he’s not sure. Black crowds at the edge of his vision, and he has the slightly ridiculous thought of _This is it_. 

And then. 

It’s like pins and needles when his arm falls asleep, but over his entire body. Dean opens his mouth to gasp, but—

He blinks his eyes, except it’s not him blinking. 

His body stands, joints awkwardly creaking. Dean screams, but the sound echoes through his skull and nowhere else. He’s cold, he’s electric, he’s in the dark—

 **Dean, it’s all right**. 

_No, no, no, no, get out, get out, GET OUT—_

Cas — because it’s Cas possessing him, it’s Cas moving his body, it’s Cas inside of him, taking away any chance of free will or action, it’s Cas who’s a ghost and _He’s not human, which means you can’t trust him_ — Cas opens his mouth. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says, using Dean’s voice. 

The demon’s lips lift in a sneer, but before she can do anything, Cas starts to speak, rapid-fire Latin rattling out of his mouth. “ _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii. Omnis legio! Omnis con... potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii. Omnis legio! Omnis congregatio et secta diabolica!_ ”

Cas twists Dean’s tongue around the unfamiliar language, and Dean feels power well through him. “ _Ergo, Draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica, adiuramus te!_ ”

Dean watches in muted horror as the demon’s body starts to convulse. A snarl twists at her pretty face, turning it into something nightmarish. As Castiel works his way through the exorcism, she starts to cough. Black smoke spills from her lips, like she’s vomiting it out in wisps, as her head snaps back at an angle that would hurt a normal human. “ _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii. Omnis legio! Omnis congregatio et secta diabolica! Ergo, Draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica, adiuramus te!_ ” 

Castiel shouts the final words, the strain tearing at Dean’s throat. Even in his prison, Dean cowers as the last of the black smoke emerges, but it twists harmlessly towards the floor and then disappears into it, leaving nothing behind but a smoldering circle. The girl sways on her feet for a few seconds before collapsing to the ground. 

With the threat of the demon removed, Dean can concentrate on his own horror. He’s still locked away in his mind, but now, without the demon to distract him, he can feel Cas alongside him, feel Cas’ wonder and delight at having a physical body. He can practically taste Cas’ joy as his fingertips rub against the rough fabric of Dean’s jeans. 

_Cas, please, please don’t, Cas, PLEASE—_

The last thing Dean feels is a surge of horror, and then the world comes rushing back, too bright and too loud and too painful. With a low groan, he drops to his knees, wincing as the meager light proves too much for his eyes. He clenches his fingers against the concrete, almost sobbing as his nails scrape against the gravel. Every sensation, from his empty stomach to the faint twinge of pain in his left ankle, is precious to him. 

“Dean—” 

Dean forces his aching body upright and whirls around to face Cas. 

It takes a moment to find him. Cas is almost transparent, the edges of his jacket bleeding in with the darkness of the warehouse. Cas’ face is the most vibrant part of him, and even that is pale and thin, tipped up to Dean as he rests his hands on his knees. 

“Dean, I’m sorry,” Cas says, his voice thin and plaintive. “I knew you wouldn’t agree if I asked, and you were...I couldn’t let her…” 

Dean stumbles forward, letting Cas’ words wash through him. They mean nothing; they’re just background noise. His eyes fall on the object of his search, and he leans forward to snatch it up. Clumsy fingers fumble over the barrel and trigger as his body tries to recalibrate itself. 

He stares at Cas down the barrel of a shotgun and feels nothing. 

For his part, Cas just looks at him, his eyes wide, haunted, and so very tired. “Dean, please,” he rasps. “I was just trying to help, please, you have to believe me.” 

Castiel is so weak that he’s hanging onto the real world by his fingertips. It won’t take more than a shove to push him out of it. 

“Dean,” Castiel whispers. “Please.” 

Dean pulls the trigger. 

The salt round hits Cas square in the chest. Dean forces himself to watch as Cas’ figure disintegrates into fog. The last to vanish are his eyes, which remain fixed on Dean. Dean doesn’t blink. 

He waits, afterward, for Cas to come back, but he never does. He waits until the cold of the night seeps into his bones and his knees ache with it. He waits until all of his newfound feeling leaks from his bones, leaving him nothing but empty, empty, empty, and still, Cas doesn’t come back. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	8. flicker from you

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

  
  


So it goes. 

Dean packs up and leaves Elk Springs the same night. He gets the girl to a hospital, but it doesn’t pay to stick around in these cases. So he heads back to the motel room to grab his shit and get the hell out of town. 

As the last order of business, he takes off the cuff. 

He spends long minutes examining it, holding it under the light, and squinting at the darker spots on the leather. Cas’ blood. He’d found it grotesque in the beginning. Now, he’s not sure what he thinks. 

He holds the cuff in one hand and the lighter in the other.  _ Flick.  _ The flame flares to life.  _ Snap.  _ It disappears. He plays this game several times, flirting with the idea.  _ Flick. _ The fire is luminous and warm. It would eat everything in its path, including the only remembrance of Castiel Novak. It’s nothing more than he deserves.  _ Snap. _

_ He’s not human, which means he can’t be trusted.  _

In the end, Dean can’t do it. He keeps staring at the small dots of Cas’ blood, and he puts his lighter away. He can’t bear to be the one responsible for erasing Cas. 

He flirts with the idea of leaving the cuff behind. He could stuff it behind the nightstand here at the Easy Rest of Elk Springs, Colorado, leave it so hidden that the overworked and underpaid cleaning staff would never find it. He could mail it to Bobby and let him deal with it. Hell, he could toss it out of the window at the side of the road. All of those options would theoretically leave him free and clear, with Cas no longer his problem. 

He can’t do it. In spite of everything between them, he can’t help but feel that he  _ owes  _ something to Cas. He can’t condemn him to an eternity haunting the shitty Easy Rest, not when he knows that Cas enjoys coming up with Dr. Sexy theories so convoluted, they make the regular writing staff look moderate by comparison. Cas deserves better than that. 

Besides, he comforts himself, as he shoves Cas’ cuff to the bottom of his bag, it’s not like Cas is coming back. He saw how weak Cas was, how faint his form was. Possessing someone took a hell of a lot out of him. No way he could claw his way back from the Veil, not when he was hit squarely in the chest with a full canister of rock salt. 

Dean zips up his bag and leaves the room. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

  
  


The hours pass differently with no one there to talk to. Dean hadn’t realized how much he took Cas’ poor conversational skills for granted until they were gone. Now he’s left to while away the miles with nothing more than his own thoughts and his collection of tapes for background noise. It’s all in his head, but it seems like his selection is shrinking. He wants to listen to something else, but he has no idea what he would even like. 

Bobby calls. Dean was expecting it; obviously, Bobby would want to know the outcome of a hunt he sent Dean on. It still takes Dean several rings to answer the phone. 

“Hey,” he says simply, one hand on the steering wheel and one with the phone to his ear. 

_ “Hey?”  _ Bobby’s voice rises high in inflection, clear mockery in his voice. “You go on a demon hunt and then go radio silent for two days, and when I get a hold of you, all you can say is  _ Hey?”  _

“Demon’s gone,” Dean says shortly, trying to head the conversation off at the pass. He might have wanted to talk to someone, but he  _ really  _ doesn’t want to talk about the hunt. 

“What do you mean, gone?” 

“I mean, gone. It’s not here anymore. It got exorcised.” 

Bobby takes in a deep breath. “And what part exactly,” he says, sounding eminently reasonable, which always rings alarm bells in Dean’s head, “of  _ recon  _ did you find difficult to understand?” 

Dean’s grip tightens around the steering wheel. “It went sideways, like it always does! It’s fine; we got it sorted. Demon’s gone, and she won’t bother anyone for a while.” 

Bobby’s silence is belligerent. It grates on Dean’s nerves, but he refuses to be the one who breaks first. Finally, Bobby sighs. 

“Damn fool thing for you to have done,” he rumbles, but there’s grudging admiration in his voice. “Damn reckless.” 

“Don’t worry, Cas already read me the riot act,” Dean says, without thinking. 

A strange curl of emotion shoots through his chest. It’s anger and resentment, mingled with fear and grief, and topped up with a good deal of betrayal just to make things interesting. 

“Yeah, I would have thought he would have had more sense,” Bobby muses. “Oh well, it’s handled.” 

“Yeah. Cas exorcised her.” 

The words are succinct. Dean still can’t verbalize all of his emotions from that night. In true Winchester fashion, he hasn’t particularly tried. 

“Oh yeah?” Bobby’s voice perks up with interest. “Put him on; I’d like to know what version he used.” 

Dean’s eyes slide to the empty passenger seat. “Cas, uh… Cas isn’t here right now.” 

“What, did he step out for a pack of smokes?” 

“Look, the exorcism took a lot out of him, okay? He was already wavering on the edge…” 

_ Cas’ face looking up at him, the quiet resignation in his words. Not pleading, but asking. Cas’ obvious fear of the Veil, and the soft sound of Dean in his mouth.  _

_ The unforgiving crack of the shotgun.  _

“Dean? You all right?” 

Jesus, he must sound bad to put that soft little cushion in Bobby’s voice. “I haven’t seen him since the exorcism,” Dean says. “I guess...I guess he lost all of his energy or mojo or whatever.” 

Bobby hums over the phone line. Dean recognizes the sound as that of Bobby putting several pieces of the puzzle together. “I wouldn’t think that a ghost, even Cas, would have the juice to exorcise a demon. Exorcisms have killed people before, and I’m talking about hunters in their prime. So how’d a ghost manage to pull it off?” 

“I don’t know,” Dean says, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “If he was here, I’d ask him, but he’s not.” 

“Dean, did something happen? Don’t start squawking at me,” Bobby warns, cutting off Dean’s protests before they can start, “I’ve got an exorcised demon, a disappearing ghost, and a hunter acting shady. Now, all of those things add up to  _ something _ , and that something ain’t good.” Bobby sucks in a deep breath. “Now, I ain’t saying that you have to tell me all the particulars, but just tell me this — do we need to worry about anything?” 

_ Cas’ voice, cracking with exhaustion, no stronger than a whisper in the breeze. His hopeless eyes looking up at Dean. _

_ Dean, please.  _

“No,” Dean says, voice much rougher than it was a few moments ago. “No, we don’t need to worry about anything.” 

“All right.” Bobby doesn’t sound convinced, but he at least doesn’t push anymore, for which Dean is grateful. “Well, if any of that changes, you know where I’ll be.” 

“Yeah. Thanks, Bobby.” 

Dean hangs up the phone and tosses it into the empty seat next to him. He pushes down on the gas pedal and keeps driving, ignoring the dull ache in his chest all the while. 

  
  


-_-_-_-_-_-_-

  
  
  


Dean’s fine. 

He falls back into solo hunting as easily as if he’d never given it up. It’s a little harder without Cas’ encyclopedic knowledge backing him up, a little more boring without Cas’ wry commentary shortening the long hours. He returns to bars, and sometimes he takes a girl out to the backseat of the Impala. Those hookups are quick and messy, and while they take the edge off, they usually leave him feeling oddly worse. 

The hunts go fine. 

He deals with the bumps, scrapes, and bruises that come with the job. He ignores the injuries he can and ices the ones he can’t. He puts himself to bed, battered and exhausted, and spends long hours in the car until his joints ache with it. 

Once, on a whim, he almost calls his dad, but he stops himself at the last minute. He doesn’t know which would be worse: to hear his father’s phone go to voicemail, to find that his father has ditched the number altogether, or to actually talk to his father. He leaves that stone unturned. 

It’s fine. 

He ignores the pang that rises from time to time when he realizes that, outside of interviewing witnesses for a case or sweet-talking some pretty young thing into his backseat, he hasn’t talked to anyone in over a week. 

It’s fine. 

He doesn’t need the company. The important thing, the only thing that matters, is that he gets the job done. 

It’s a surprise when Sam calls. Dean’s in his motel room when his phone rings, a half-eaten burger and several newspapers in front of him. He looks at the name on the display, his heart tripping nervously, before he answers. 

“Is everything all right?” 

“What?” Sam’s laugh sounds genuine, but there’s an edge to it. “I can’t just call you to say hi?” 

_ Traditionally, no,  _ Dean thinks, but doesn’t say. What good would it do, really? But without that, he runs out of things to say. He doesn’t want to be reduced to small talk with Sam:  _ How’s school, any summer plans, do anything exciting?,  _ but it seems as though that’s all he has. 

Sam’s feeling the strain as well. After a few awkward moments, he asks, “So...how’s hunting?” 

Dean’s laugh is awful and brittle, but at least it’s authentic. “Oh, you know,” he says, faking a lightness he doesn’t feel, “same shit, different monsters.” 

“Yeah, I guess. Have you heard from Dad? Or are you still hunting with that other guy?” 

Dean’s not ready for the surge of pain that roars up in his chest. Shame boils through him as a thin, ragged little exhalation leaves his mouth. He clamps his jaw shut, but it’s too late. Sam hears and his brother, the Great and Sympathetic Moose, latches on to his sound of distress like a piranha scenting blood. 

“Dean? What happened?” 

Dean opens his mouth, intending to tell Sam to either fuck off or, perhaps nicer, not to worry about it. It’s not Sam’s problem anymore, Sam pretty much ensured that when he fucked off to California. 

That’s what he intends. 

Instead, what comes pouring out is, “Sammy, I think I fucked up.” 

And instead of doing what Dean expects, which is either hanging up outright, or possibly offering a tired platitude like  _ I’m sure you didn’t, everything’s going to be fine,  _ what Sam says is, “Tell me about it.” 

Most surprisingly of all, Dean does. 

It all comes pouring out — Cas’ cuff, the meeting at the library, the ghost in the mineshaft, the seance, and finally meeting Cas. 

It’s then that Sam interrupts for the first time. “Hold on. Are you telling me that you actually...Dean, are you saying that you made  _ friends  _ with a ghost?” 

“You’d understand if you met him.” Dean doesn’t doubt it, not for a second. If Sam had met Cas, the two of them would have nerded out, no doubt to the point where Dean would have been annoyed. Probably the two of them would have teamed up against him and been even more obnoxious together than they could ever manage separately. Probably, they’d bug him about drinking too much and want him to eat salads. 

“All right, I’m not saying I get it, but... Go on.” 

Flustered, Dean rushes through the back half of the story, skimming over the dozens of hunts he and Cas undertook. He doesn’t mention the dozens of conversations they shared, in the slow, twilight minutes before he fell asleep. He doesn’t talk about how sometimes the waitresses at diners would flirt with Cas, and how perplexed Cas would be from their attentions. For sure, he doesn’t reminisce over the night he fell asleep almost spooning Cas, and he’ll die before he tells anyone about the prominent place Cas took in his fantasies, when it was just him, the shower walls, and a soapy hand. 

No, it’s just the facts. Cas functioned as his hunting partner, at least as much as a disembodied spirit could be considered a hunter, and together they criss-crossed the country several times. He keeps the meeting with John to himself. There’s still too much bad blood between Sam and Dad to get an unbiased opinion out of Sam, and Dean doesn’t want to listen to Sam recount all the ways that Dad let them down. 

He tells Sam about the demon hunt and the utter terror that accompanied it. Sam listens as Dean describes the feeling of power that emanated from the demon, the sense that he was touching something ancient, and evil, and utterly unconcerned with him. He still doesn’t think he comes close to describing the hopelessness he felt when he realized he had no idea how to save himself. 

“And then Cas took over.” 

“Yeah?” Sam is almost breathless, whether from fear, awe, or anger, Dean’s not sure. “He exorcised the demon?” 

Dean pauses, just a little too long before replying, and that pause is everything Sam, the bloodhound, needs to put him on the scent. “Dean?” What happened?”

Lying to Sam is different than lying to Bobby, and at the end of the day, Dean finds that he can’t do it. Perhaps it’s because Sam’s out of the game, or just because for most of their lives, he and Sam were all the other had. 

“So you know that ghost Dad hunted in Hoboken?” 

Dean can practically hear Sam thinking. “The one that was going around and taking control of people?” Another second before the lightbulb flickers on. “Holy shit? Are you saying...Cas possessed you?” Mingled rage and fear is in Sam’s voice. “Dean, you have to burn him right now! If he’s doing that, he’s acting like a vengeful spirit—” 

“It’s not like that.” Dean doesn’t want to fight with Sam, he really doesn’t, but he can’t listen to Sam deride Cas. “Sam, I was useless. I was worse than useless. Cas and Bobby both told me not to take it, but I was convinced that I could handle it. I mean, Dad hunts demons, right?” His laugh is a broken, mirthless thing crawling out of his chest. “Gotta be like Dad.”

Dean’s swallow is painful. “I didn’t...I had the exorcism written on some pages in my back pocket like it was my locker combination. That was my backup. That was my plan for a worst-case scenario. God, I was so fucking stupid.” 

“Dean, you couldn’t have—” 

“I did know! Bobby told me and I had Cas right  _ there,  _ god, how  _ stupid  _ could I be, he was fucking  _ killed  _ by demons, and there I went, acting like I could handle myself—” 

Dean’s coming dangerously close to ranting, so he takes a shaky inhale to try and calm himself. “If Cas hadn’t been there, I would be dead.” 

Though the thought has skirted around the edges of his consciousness, it’s the first time Dean’s admitted it aloud to himself. 

Even though his methods were less than exemplary, Cas saved his life. 

And Dean repaid him for it with a salt round to the gut. 

“Dean, what happened to Cas?” 

Sam has always known how to get to the heart of a matter. 

Dean’s guilt tastes bitter on his tongue. “After he…” He still can’t bring himself to say it; even though he knows Cas’ intentions were pure, he still can’t forget his revulsion and fear. “After Cas, after he...left...he was weak. He’d used so much of his strength already, he was barely hanging on. And I was so angry. I was  _ so  _ angry. And I…” 

He swallows. “I shot him, Sam. I knew he would go back to the Veil, hell, I wanted it. I wanted him gone. I never wanted to see him again.” 

“Dean, he’d just possessed you. Of course you were angry.” 

“If I’d just taken two seconds to listen to someone else, we wouldn’t have been in that situation in the first place! Yeah, Cas fucked up, but he never wanted to be there, he was  _ terrified,  _ and he went along anyway, because I told him we were going. And then, he did the only thing he could to save me. And instead of listening to him, I sent him back to the Veil.” 

Sam’s quiet for several long minutes, long enough to make Dean check his phone just to make sure the call hasn’t dropped. When he finally speaks, he does so carefully and haltingly, like he’s tiptoeing through a minefield. “I mean, that sucks. And I get why you’re upset but… I mean, he’s a ghost. He  _ should _ be in the Veil. That’s where ghosts belong.” 

Dean hears the unspoken question behind Sam’s words:  _ Why do you care so much?  _

The answer comes, not in terms of obligation and the job, but rather, in the image of Cas’ smile, tossed carelessly over his shoulder, as he insults Dean’s choice of music. 

_ Oh, fuck.  _

“Sam, I gotta go,” Dean says, his voice thick. Sam makes dozens of concerned noises at him, but Dean ignores them all and hangs up the phone. 

He sprawls back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. How many nights did he spend with Cas, in rooms exactly like this? 

Pain claws at his chest until he releases a soft gasp into the quiet of the room. “Cas,” he finally chokes, curling in on himself to try and ease the empty ache in his gut. “Oh, fuck.”

He rolls over onto his stomach, grabbing at his duffel. He digs through the piles of clothes that should probably be washed soon, until he reaches the bottom of the bag. His fingers brush against the stiff leather of the cuff, and he pulls it out. 

It looks exactly the same as it did the last time he saw it. There are still the faint stains along the leather, the same sigils etched into the material. He never asked Cas what they meant. He never asked Cas a lot of things. 

He never  _ told _ Cas a lot of things. Like how, even though Dean would bitch about it, he didn’t exactly hate some of Cas’ music. Like how he didn’t hate when Cas would ramble on in tangents about something he saw the previous night on TV, while Dean was sleeping. Like how he never appreciated Cas’ help, or sly humor, or quiet resolve, when he had the chance. 

_ Fuck.  _

He’s never really examined that part of him. It was enough to know it was there, enough to know that sometimes his eye would linger on the male form just as long as it would the female form. But Cas...Cas broke down his every barrier. He did it so smoothly and effortlessly, Dean never knew his walls were in trouble until they had disintegrated. 

It’s stupid. It’s pointless. Even if Cas were  _ here,  _ he would still be dead. There’s no hope of anything. 

But in the quiet and silence of the motel room, Dean can finally admit to himself that he wants Cas. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

If Dean had been hoping for a Disney moment, one where he tearfully confesses his longing and is immediately rewarded by the return of his lost lover, he would have been sadly disappointed. 

He supposes this is his punishment: to finally understand what he wants at a time when there’s no hope of him receiving it. He’s never been fully convinced of the existence of a God, but if he was, this would be proof that He’s always been a sadistic bastard. 

He does a little bit of research on how to summon a specific spirit. He even goes so far as to call Pamela, thus sparking a phone conversation that always seems to dip on the wrong side of innuendo. He has to talk in circles, too afraid she’ll narc on him to Bobby if he’s too specific in his reasoning for why he wants this specific ghost. In the end, there’s not much more she can tell him, other than what he was able to glean through the internet and dozens of notes from other hunters. 

“Ghosts are tricky,” Pamela finally says, with the air of someone imparting invaluable wisdom. “Some of them still remember what it was like to be human, which means they’re about as helpful as people. Means they can be as spiteful as people too, which can make ‘em dangerous. If you’re looking for a certain spirit, the best bet would be to get in touch with whatever made them human. Those base urges are the last ones to fade.” 

“Yeah, all right. Thanks,” Dean adds after a second, when he realizes that he’s been churlish. 

“No problem,” Pamela says. There’s something pleased in her voice that Dean doesn’t wholly trust. He wonders exactly how far someone has to be from her before her mojo doesn’t work. He doesn’t entirely trust the distance of two states. “And hey, let me know how it turns out.” 

“Yeah, sure.” Dean hangs up the phone, as always slightly unsettled by talking to Pamela. He doesn’t quite trust psychics. He doesn’t quite trust anyone who understands what’s going on in his head more than he does. 

He paces around his room, examining the facts. Cas is gone. No one has any real rituals for how to get him back. Pamela suggested appealing to the things that made Cas human. To Dean’s knowledge, that would be his cuff, hunting, Gabriel, and himself. He already has the cuff, hunting is the reason they’re in this mess to begin with, Gabriel is dead, and…

He’s been talking into the void for several days now, tossing out inanities and pleas alike. 

_ Come back.  _

_ I’m sorry.  _

_ Please, come back.  _

Nothing seems to work, and Dean’s tried everything he can think of. If Cas isn’t coming back, there’s one of two options to choose from: either Cas can’t come back, or Cas  _ won’t  _ come back. 

Dean isn’t sure which of those options is more distressing. 

In the end, it doesn’t matter. They both have the same result. 

Cas is gone, and he’s not coming back. 

-_-_-_-_-_-

Dean drags himself back into the motel room, graveyard dirt caked underneath his nails and the stench of kerosene clinging to his clothes. He hates when the ghosts refuse to just lie down and die like good tortured souls. This one had been especially determined he wasn’t going to torch her bones, and put up a pretty spry fight for someone who’d been dead for sixty years. 

He twists his neck until his vertebrae snap back into place. The sound makes him wince, but it’s nothing that a hot shower can’t clear up. He sheds his clothes on the way to the bathroom, dropping his jeans and shirts in a breadcrumb trail right up to the tub. He flicks at the light switches, frowning when they flicker and flare before settling. 

“Fucking cheap-ass rooms,” he mutters, turning on the water as hot as it will go. He hisses as he steps into the spray, but it’s worth it to feel the tension bleeding from his muscles. The motel soap is cheap and grainy, but it does its job passably well. By the time Dean exits the shower, he’s scrubbed clean and feeling at least a little like a human. He checks his watch, laid out on the bathroom counter. It’s only 12:45. There has to be a bar within walking distance open. 

The second the thought rises in his head, Dean dismisses it. No doubt Sam’s jaw would hit the ground if he were to discover this, but lately, Dean just hasn’t had the appetite for drinking and hustling. It’s empty to him, the thrill of the chase vanished at the second of acquisition. He’d much rather curl up in the room with a single beer and watch whatever’s on TV. 

Yeah, he’ll die before he divulges that particular piece of information to Sam. 

Dean walks into the room proper, a flimsy towel wrapped around his waist. He plucks his shirt and jeans up off of the floor, wrinkling his nose at the funk coming off of the clothes. Tomorrow, before he can even worry about picking up a new job, he has to make his way to a Laundromat. 

He turns to find his duffel, but the sight of his jacket hung up on the back of a chair stops him in his tracks. His heart thumps several times, hard, in his chest before it settles. He could have sworn he tossed the jacket down on the ground with the rest of his clothes, yet it’s placed neatly over the back of the chair, almost like…

Dean’s eyes fly to the corners of the room, noting the dark places where shadows like to hide. He stares at them, probably for longer than he should, trying to find anything out of the ordinary there. Eventually, he has to give it up as a lost cause. 

He bites back his disappointment as he slides into a pair of less dirty boxers and gets into bed. He thought he would grow used to the feeling, but it still comes and hits him at odd intervals. It leaves him feeling uneven and paranoid, always aware that even at his highest moment, he can be struck low by a bout of melancholy. 

Dean tries to push his emotions aside in an attempt to get at least four hours’ worth of sleep. He doesn’t succeed in his attempt to cease thinking, but exhaustion has the final say. His eyelids grow heavy, and he eventually drops off to sleep. 

\---

He’s not sure what wakes him. 

Dean’s hand shoots out towards the lamp, fumbling for the switch. Shadows flare around the room as the lightbulb snaps to life with a swift kick of ozone. He looks around the room, hand groping underneath his pillow for his gun. There’s no immediate threat, but he wouldn’t have woken up if there weren’t… If there…

A shadow separates itself from the corner. Dean doesn’t blink as it moves forward. He already knows, before the darkness solidifies into the figure of a man, what he’ll see. 

Dark hair, the same leather jacket covering the same broad shoulders, and those eyes — ancient and exhausted and so fucking sad—

A faint smile tugs at Cas’ lips as he looks at Dean, exactly the same as he did before Dean shot him. 

“Hello, Dean.” 

~*~*~*~*~*~*


	9. hold me still

~*~*~*~*~*~*

  
  


For a second, Dean can’t believe his eyes. 

He’d given up hope of ever seeing Cas again, and now, without bidding, Cas is here. In the flesh, or as close as he can be. 

He gapes, disbelief pulsing through his veins in a hot twist, and then he’s throwing his legs out of bed, and almost running to Cas. His torso feels disjointed from his legs, moving at different paces, so that time starts and stops. 

It’s automatic to reach out to Cas, to wrap him in his arms, drag him close, bury his nose in the curl of dark hair just beyond his ear, squeeze, just so he can feel held back—

Dean’s arms drop to his side. 

Right. Still a ghost. 

Now that his initial shock has faded, Dean can take a second to really look at Cas. He doesn’t look great. He looks worn around the edges, faded and tattered, like a stiff breeze could push him over. Like a single salt round could send him careening back into the Veil. 

“Cas,” Dean says, a little stupidly because his brain has never functioned well in situations like these. “How are you…” 

Cas’ lips lift in a wan smile. “Here? I’m not sure.” Dean can tell there’s more to the story, but Cas seems remarkably close-lipped, even for him. Cas peers around the room. “Are you alone?” 

Dean blinks in confusion. No matter how many times he might have imagined Cas in slightly risqu é situations, he still didn’t picture Cas’ return featuring the opening line of half the porn Dean’s ever watched. 

“Yeah?” he finally says, gesturing around at the single pair of shoes, single jacket, single bed, single single single all the way around. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

Cas cranes his head to peer into the bathroom before he’s seemingly satisfied. “I don’t know,” he says, deliberately casual, “I thought you might have partnered up with another hunter. Your father, for instance.” 

The way Cas pauses before he delivers that last sentence tells Dean everything he needs to know, about Cas’ suspicions, about his fear. He can’t decide whether he’s angry or not. 

“In case you didn’t notice, my dad pretty much dropped me like a bad prom date,” Dean says, a little heat edging its way into his words. 

“I thought…” Cas shifts, looking everywhere except straight at Dean. “I thought, maybe if you told him what happened… Maybe he might have reconsidered.” 

Dean’s laugh is a harsh, ugly thing. “You obviously don’t know my dad very well. He doesn’t ‘reconsider’ anything, because he’s never been wrong a day in his life.” 

Cas’ nose wrinkles. “Something he passed down to his sons, apparently.” 

The sentence drops like a stone in the middle of a calm lake. It takes a moments for the ripples to reach Dean, but when they do—

“No. Absolutely not.” He’s not sure how he went from standing a respectful distance away to standing directly in front of Cas, shoving his finger almost through him, but he assumes the transition was unimportant. “You don’t get to be angry at me, you son of a bitch. I’m not the one who went jumping into someone else’s body!” 

Cas’ upper lip lifts as his fists clench. For one, wild moment, Dean is almost convinced Cas is going to swing on him. “You were  _ dying!  _ Was I supposed to sit back and watch it happen?” 

“You don’t realize just how far off the rails you went, do you? Possession, Cas? That’s what vengeful spirits do!” 

“Dean, that demon was  _ killing  _ you, and I saw the only way to make it stop. Now, I’m sorry if you were disturbed, but—” 

“You fucking  _ possessed  _ me!” 

Dean’s voice echoes through the room, raw and furious. His fists clench at his sides, shaking with inaction. He wants to swing at Cas. He wants to slam his fist into Cas’ jaw, feel the solidity of it underneath his knuckles. He wants Cas to feel half the horror that he did. 

“So don’t talk to me about  _ disturbed  _ or whatever else the fuck you were going to say to make me feel like I shouldn’t be angry. You fucking...I could  _ feel  _ you moving me around like a puppet.” Dean shudders, remembering his helplessness. “I could feel when you thought about staying.” 

Cas deflates in front of him. His edges turn translucent, jacket blending into the darkness of the room behind him. He doesn’t contradict Dean, so there’s something. 

“I didn’t want to watch you die,” Cas finally says, his rough voice quiet. “I  _ couldn’t  _ watch you die, not when I could do something to stop it. I’m sorry about the way I went about it. I wish there had been a different way. But I don’t regret the end result. I won’t.” 

He meets Dean’s eyes unflinchingly. “And if you want to send me back to the Veil, if you want to burn me… I suppose you can. I never wanted to hurt you. Whatever you believe, you need to know that. I would  _ never  _ hurt you.” 

Dean wants to be angry. He wants to hang on to his fury and righteousness, wants to feel it burn him from the inside out, but he can’t. Not when Cas is staring up at him, not when Cas says precious sentiments like that so easily. 

“Goddammit, Cas,” Dean finally breathes. He collapses back onto the lumpy mattress, needing the extra support. Cas remains standing, a few paces away. He doesn’t lose the tight, hunted look, but something relaxes in his shoulders. 

“Never again,” Dean finally says, pointing a warning at Cas. Cas opens his mouth, no doubt to argue, but Dean cuts him off with a rough gesture. “I don’t fucking care what you think. You can’t…” He takes a deep breath. “Cas, that was the worst thing I’ve ever felt. You took _everything_ , and for a second, I didn’t know whether you were going to give it back.” 

“Dean, you can’t ask me to—”

“I can,” Dean says firmly. “It’s my life, my decision. And even if you think that’s the only way—” He locks eyes with Cas, putting every inch of conviction he can muster into the words. “If you ever do that again, we’re done. I’ll ship the cuff back to Bobby’s and let him figure out what to do with you.” 

Cas bristles. “I’m not a recalcitrant child—” 

“Dammit, Cas, listen to me!” Cas obligingly shuts his mouth, though his eyes blaze fury. “Just tell me you won’t do it again.” 

Cas stares at him for several long minutes. If Dean were to guess at the workings behind his mind, he would say that Cas is trying to figure out any loopholes to his ultimatum. He holds the stare. There’s a lot that Dean is willing to compromise on, but not this. Never this. If Cas won’t promise… Well, Dean doesn’t know exactly what he’ll do. He supposes he’ll figure it out. 

“You can’t ask this of me,” Cas finally says. “Not when…” He looks pleadingly at Dean. “You can’t ask me to stand idly by while you’re torn apart.” 

“That’s not what I’m asking,” Dean says evenly. He won’t crack. He can’t. “You know what I’m asking.” 

In the end, it’s Cas who crumbles. He’s not happy about it. Dean sees his resignation come over him in waves. First there’s the clench of his jaw, then the curl of his shoulders, then the deliberate relaxation of his hands against his thighs. 

“Fine,” Cas spits at him. He’s obviously furious at being backed into a corner, but for the first time since Cas appeared in the room, Dean feels as though he can finally breathe. 

He waits until Cas settles. It takes a while. Cas paces the narrow expanse of carpet in front of the bed while Dean watches. He wonders if Cas is trying to work off his angry energy. He wonders how long it takes for a ghost to tire himself out. 

It turns out the answer is “about ten minutes.” During that time, Dean takes the opportunity to examine every facet of him. It’s an exercise as agonizing as it is fulfilling. It’s delightful to be able to finally stare at the sharp cut of Cas’ jaw, horrific to realize that he’ll never feel the sharp scrape of that stubble against his fingers. He can finally stare at Cas’ plush lips at the same time he realizes that he’ll never know how they feel pushing against his. Cas has nice hands, large, with long, delicate fingers that look more suited to playing the piano than hunting. Dean will never feel them against his skin, never discover the hidden calluses, never discover how Cas enjoys using them when he kisses. 

“What?” Cas finally snaps. Dean tries to compose himself, but can’t quite hide his guilty little shift. Looks like Cas wasn’t as lost in his thoughts as he seemed. 

“It’s just nice to have you back,” Dean finally says. He didn’t really intend to be that honest, but it’s late, he’s exhausted, and after several weeks of doubting, Cas is  _ back.  _ Dean doesn’t have quite the willpower to play coy at the moment. 

Something naked and surprised passes over Cas’ face before he shutters his expression. “Well. It would be nice not to be shot again.” 

Dean glowers at him, mostly to cover up the hot curl of shame in his gut. “I’m sorry,” Dean begins, but he can tell from Cas’ glare that his weak apology isn’t going to mend any fences. 

“I told you,” Cas begins. Where Dean’s temper burned hot, Cas’ seems mostly dimmed to embers. “I told you what the Veil was like. I told you how lonely it was, how terrifying. I  _ told  _ you, you  _ knew  _ how I felt about it, and you still sent me there. You sent me there, and you didn’t…” Cas draws in a deep breath. Unnecessary, but Dean supposes that some habits die hard. “You threw me back into the Veil and you wanted me to stay there.” 

“Yes.” 

Cas looks away. Dean is grateful for the reprieve. 

“I don’t think you can understand,” Cas finally says, quietly, still staring at the window. “The absolute loneliness. There are  _ thousands  _ of souls trapped in the Veil, and all of them want out. All of them want sensation, all of them are screaming. It’s like standing in the middle of a hurricane and hoping it doesn’t tear you to shreds. There’s nothing there.  _ Nothing,  _ Dean. No frame of reference, no time, nothing to do other than try to find a way out and hope you don’t lose every bit of yourself along the way.” 

Cas rubs his palm over his face. “I’ve never been to Hell. I don’t know what it’s like. But for me, being in the Veil, never knowing if I’ll get out again, not knowing who I’ll be when I get out, not knowing if you would even be here when I did… Next time, just burn me. Please. If I’ve ever earned anything from you, let it be that.” He stares at Dean, too tired to defend himself further. 

Dean swallows. His rage, whatever was left, has vanished. All that’s left is the surging feeling in his chest. The one that feels like hope, feels like  _ home,  _ despite Dean’s admittedly limited understanding of the concept. 

“I couldn’t do that,” he admits, his voice rasping out in the otherwise quiet room. “Cas, I don’t...I couldn’t burn you.” 

Castiel blinks at him. Perhaps he’s too exhausted to do anything else, already worn thin from his fight back from the Veil. Then, his smile breaks like the dawn across his face, something relieved and something else shining in his eyes. 

“Come here,” Dean commands, though it comes out of his mouth as a request. “Just...come here, please.” 

Cas walks towards him, each step taking an age to fulfill, until he’s standing less than a foot away. Dean’s skin and fingers itch with the urge to reach out and  _ touch.  _ He wants nothing more than to reach out and make Cas  _ his,  _ wants to pull him down and cover his face with kisses, wants to spread out on top of him until Cas can’t possibly think of leaving, but all he can do is reach out to Cas, his palm held flat. 

Cas stares at his hand for a few seconds before he copies the gesture. He holds his palm less than a hairsbreadth away from Dean, so close that Dean can almost pretend they’re touching. 

“Dean,” Cas finally says, looking back and forth between their hands and his face, “you should know that I…” He closes his eyes, face twisting as though he’s being tortured. “I think it’s an appropriate time to tell you that I, I feel  _ more  _ towards you than I perhaps should—” 

Dean’s breath leaves him in a giant whoosh, and he’s over the moon, he’s delighted, he’s incandescent with glee. “Fuck, Cas, me too.” He can already feel his cock stirring against his thigh, which is ridiculous. Cas hasn’t done more than  _ look  _ at him, but he’s desperate for anything, even if it’s nothing more than Cas’ regard. 

Cas blinks twice, obviously surprised, but cool enough to try and cover it up. A predatory, pleased expression spreads over his face as he looks at Dean. Dean’s suddenly aware of the flush covering both his cheeks and the quick rise and fall of his chest. He knows that if this were any other sort of encounter, he would already be giving Cas the bedroom eyes, already licking his lips in anticipation of something greater at the end of the night.

But Cas isn’t another conquest, isn’t even technically human, and therein lies the difference. 

Under Cas’ eyes, Dean feels flayed. Cas doesn’t know everything about him; in fact, there’s a hell of a lot he doesn’t know about Dean, but Dean  _ wants  _ Cas to know everything about him. He wants…

He aches, with a pain so fierce it makes him gasp. He wants to  _ touch.  _

“Lay back down,” Cas tells him, voice raw and ragged at the edges. His expression looks just as conflicted as Dean feels, all of his yearning reflected back at him. 

Dean obeys. His skin is singing, Cas’ proximity lighting him up until he’s a tight coil of anticipation. The sheets are stiff against his skin, his cock more than half hard against his thigh. 

“Cas, I want…” Dean begins, and then trails off. No matter what he wants, he can’t get it. Not unless the laws of the world change. 

“I know.” Pain flashes over Cas’ face as he reaches out towards the lamp. His fingers pass through it, and Dean reaches out to shut it off, just so he won’t have to see Cas’ stricken face anymore. 

The room plunges into darkness, taking the sight of Cas away from him. “Cas?” Dean calls into the darkness, suddenly terrified with a child’s fear, that if he can’t see something, it’ll disappear. 

“I’m here,” Cas says, closer than Dean was expecting. Dean automatically flinches back, but just as soon settles.

“You’re going to stay?” 

The whisper of wind passes over his skin. It’s not as comforting as a touch; it’ll never substitute for the gravity of human contact. Dean wants more so badly he can taste it. 

“Yes, Dean,” Cas whispers. His voice pulls over Dean like the warmest blanket. “I’ll be here.” 

~*~*~*~*~*


	10. lead me back

~*~*~*~*~*

  
  


Dean wakes in the morning with the distinct feeling of being watched. Adrenaline courses through him, then fades as he remembers last night. 

Cas. Cas is back. 

His eyes snap open, seeking confirmation. For a moment, he can’t find anything in the haze of the early morning light, and he panics. Then he blinks, the light dims to a more manageable glow, and he sees him. 

Cas is stretched out along the mattress next to him, one hand propping his head up. His other hand reaches out towards Dean, fingers almost brushing against his skin. There’s something tired in the pinch of his eyes, but it eases when he sees Dean looking at him. 

“Morning,” he says. His rough voice sends a shiver of delight down Dean’s spine. The automatic impulse rises in him to reach out and pull Cas flush against him, brush kisses over his lips and jaw until Cas’ stubble makes his lips raw. It’s only with difficulty that he forces his hands to press flat against the bed, so as to remove temptation. 

“Hi.” A stupid grin spreads over his face, and Dean’s only consolation is that an equally stupid smile is plastered across Cas’ face. 

Dean needs to get up and get dressed. He’s already got a hunt lined up two states over, and if he wants to get there by this afternoon, he needs to leave within the hour. 

But he can’t stop looking at Cas. 

Cas will never grow older than the day he died. There are faint lines in his forehead that will never deepen with age or use. His dark hair will never silver, his beard will never grey. He’s a picture, frozen in time.

Cas seems to pick up on the trail of his thoughts, if his troubled frown is anything to judge by. “Hey,” he says. His fingers twitch like he wants to brush the expression from Dean’s face, but he stops himself at the last moment. 

“I need to get dressed,” Dean finally says, breaking the tension between them. He flings the covers back from his chest, intent on doing just that. It’s Cas’ heated gaze that stops him, blue eyes traveling hungrily over his body. A flush creeps over Dean’s cheeks and down his chest. He has the urge to drag the blankets up over himself again, like a blushing Victorian maiden, but he stops himself and lets Cas look his fill. 

Cas does so, shamelessly. Dean supposes that dying gets rid of a lot of hangups, but he’s still not used to being looked at like he’s a meal worth devouring. A slow smile spreads across Cas’ face as he settles back. Dean gets the impression Cas could look at him all day and still not be satisfied. It’s a heady feeling. 

Cas’ hand passes over his chest, still maintaining the careful space between their bodies. Dean’s breath comes faster. With everything in him, he  _ wants— _

Cas pulls away, putting a safe distance between them. His eyes still rove up and down Dean’s body, but it seems like he’s putting at least a minimal effort into controlling himself. “You need to get dressed,” he tells Dean, his voice a little raspy. His fingers pluck at the fabric of his jeans close to his thighs, almost like…

Ghosts probably don’t get boners, but Dean supposes that old habits die hard. 

“Got a problem there, Cas?” he teases, going to his duffel and pulling out a pair of jeans and a semi-clean shirt. 

Cas’ voice is dark and full of promise. 

“Not as big of a problem as you’re going to have.”

\---

It doesn’t take any time before they fall back into the patterns of old, only this time, it’s better. Now, Dean doesn’t have to hide his quick glances; instead, he allows them to linger, until some sixth sense (if it’s Cas who has it, does that make it a seventh sense?) alerts Cas to Dean’s gaze. Then, Dean gets the pleasure of seeing Cas squirm with poorly hidden delight. He doesn’t blush (blushing is one of many activities lost to Cas), but he does duck his head, chin tucking in close to his chest. He thinks that means Dean won’t see him smile, but Dean sees almost everything when it comes to Cas. 

Cas gets stronger by the minute, his outline sharpening and solidifying as they drive. Halfway through his first morning back, Cas is able to pick up small things like pens and books. By the afternoon, he’s flipping aimlessly through a paperback Dean had tucked away. (He kept it with the vague thought that _Cas would like this_ , and never bothered to get rid of it. He was right. Cas does like it.)

Riding high on the feeling of the afternoon sun streaming through the window and the highway disappearing underneath the Impala’s tires, Dean pops in the cassette for  _ Led Zeppelin II.  _ He doesn’t look at the side, but thanks whatever absent god is listening that he had the luck to put in Side 2 first. He doesn’t think he could have held it together if he was assaulted with the triple threat of  _ Whole Lotta Love, The Lemon Song,  _ and  _ Thank You.  _

The familiar chords of  _ Ramble On  _ fill the car. Dean hums along, tapping at the steering wheel. When Plant’s voice starts to fill the car, he can’t help but mouth the lyrics. At first, he manages to keep himself from singing along, but once the chorus kicks in, he can’t help but belt out the song. 

What surprises him is when Cas starts humming along with him, nodding his head in time to the beat. After a few moments, a low baritone fills the Impala’s interior.  _ Humming,  _ Dean realizes, with a jolt of delight,  _ Cas is humming to his favorite song.  _

A supernova expands and explodes behind Dean’s ribcage. So often, he’s wondered what people mean when they say that they’re deliriously happy, and he finally knows: this. This is what they mean, with the sun warming his skin, the rumble and shake of the engine all around him, his favorite song playing through the stereos like a church hymn, and Cas next to him, a serene expression on his face as he starts to mumble the lyrics. 

_ I can’t find my bluebird _

_ I listen to my bluebird sing _

_ I can’t find my bluebird _

_ I keep rambling, baby _

Dean’s in danger of running off the road, but he doesn’t care. He stares at Cas, transfixed by the planes of his face as he finishes singing. He’s entranced by the dark stubble dusting his jaw, the flop of Cas’ hair over his forehead, even the smudge of dirt high against his cheek. Finally, Cas becomes aware of his scrutiny. He looks over at Dean, one eyebrow raising. The gesture looks sardonic, but Dean recognizes the slight embarrassment in the flicker of his eyes. 

“You listen to this song a lot,” Cas says, by way of explanation. “When I was trapped in the Veil, I could sometimes hear things, and this was one of them. I… I grew quite fond of this song.” 

“Of course you did, this song is awesome. Zeppelin rules.” Dean glances over at Cas. Cas’ face is split in a gentle smile. His finger rests on the page of the book, marking his place. 

Normally, this would be the part where Dean painfully changes the subject, with all the tact of a bucket of ice water dumped onto the conversation. He would find himself uncomfortable with the welling emotions and the softness in Cas’ eyes and seek to remove himself from the situation as quickly as possible. Now, Dean couldn’t care less. He wants to live in this moment, wants to bottle it up so he can take hits off of it on days when it seems like the world is falling apart. 

He grins back at Cas until it feels like his chest can no longer contain the multitudes of galaxies within it. 

“So what are you after?” Cas asks, setting the book aside. Dean’s so distracted that he doesn’t register the question at first. Cas’ raised eyebrow brings his attention back to the matter at hand. 

“Oh. I’m not sure. Probably just a revenant or a shapeshifter. Michelle Richardson was found dead in her house; no signs of a forced entry. Nothing out of the ordinary, except that the neighbor swears she saw Michelle’s dead husband walking out the front door about four hours before the body was found.” 

Castiel hums, tapping his fingers against his chin. “You’ve got your silver?” 

Dean tosses him a dirty look. “No, because I’m an idiot who only started the job this morning. Of course I have silver.” 

“All right, all right, no need to be testy,” Castiel mutters, though he looks pleased. “Just a question.” 

Dean makes an inarticulate noise of suspicion, but lets it lie for the moment. If he slides a sneaky glance out of the corner of his eye, he can get an excellent glimpse of Cas looking smug as he taps his fingers against the dash of the Impala. 

Christ, Dean missed him so much. 

\---

It’s a shapeshifter. A real nasty piece of work; one that masquerades as someone’s deceased loved one and uses their grief to gain entrance into their house, kill the person and rob them blind. Dean sneers in disgust as he straightens, pulling his silver knife out of the shifter’s chest. 

“Good fucking riddance,” he says, using the cloth Cas hands him to wipe his blade clean. 

“Not that I’m not loving the view, but we should probably get out of here sooner rather than later. I’m sure the neighbors have called the police.” 

Dean glances over at Cas. Cas looks decidedly shady, his eyes darting over Dean’s body as though they can’t remain in any one place for too long. As Dean watches, the tip of Cas’ tongue comes out to dab at the swell of his lower lip. Dean cocks his head to the side. He might be oblivious, but he’s neither blind nor stupid. What he’s getting from this is…

Huh. Well, that’s interesting. 

“See something you like?” 

Maybe death really has removed all of Cas’ filters, or maybe he was always this much of a blunt son of a bitch. Whichever it is, Dean doesn’t really care. He can’t spare the brain cells as Cas stalks forward, predatory intent seeping from his eyes and movements. Dean finds himself taking a few steps backward, though retreat is the last thing on his mind. 

“Very much so,” Cas growls, once he’s within arm’s reach of Dean. He drags his eyes up and down Dean’s body, leaving nothing to Dean’s imagination. “So I suggest we leave and go back to the motel, where I can tell you how very much I appreciate it.”

Dean’s knees wobble. The dark promise in Cas’ tone, the utter surety of him… It’s all he can do to keep from dropping to his knees right then. To cover it up, he scoffs. “You’re pretty horny for a dead guy.” 

Cas doesn’t take the bait. “I have some lovely inspiration to work with. Now, Dean.” Cas’ voice drops at least three octaves, low enough to scrape the floor and work the gravel in it down Dean’s spine.  _ “Get in the car.”  _

Dean obeys, practically sprinting to the Impala. All appearances of dignity have vanished, and he consoles himself with the thought that at least it’s only Cas here to see him. Cas has already witnessed him at some of his lowest points, and he’s never used them against Dean. Cas won’t judge him for this. For  _ needing  _ this. 

The drive back to the motel flashes by in a blur. Dean’s not sure of the speed limit; he only knows he doesn't adhere to it, the Impala’s engine whining in soft protest as he urges her faster. Cas is in the passenger seat next to him, and he doesn’t even have the decency to look away. Flames lick over Dean’s body, his skin ablaze wherever Cas’ eyes touch. 

He parks crookedly in front of the motel door. He knows he’s going to come out the next morning and be horrified at himself for being so careless, but right now, he could give less than two damns. His brain is in a fog, and he can’t think beyond the need to see Cas, to hear him, to… 

“Patience,” Cas says, his voice right next to Dean’s ear as he fumbles the key into the lock. “We have time.” 

It’s almost insulting, how Dean is falling over himself, and Cas is still cool and collected. Dean chooses to think it’s because Cas doesn’t have to contend with the fervent roar of blood rushing downward, or the worry that he’s going to hyperventilate and pass out long before any of the fun starts. 

Dean eventually unlocks the door and makes it into the room. Once inside, he freezes. If this were anyone else, he knows exactly what he’d do. He’d pin them up against the door and indulge in long, deep kisses while his hands slipped underneath their shirt and into their waistband. Clothes, littered across the floor, each inch of skin kissed, nibbled, and caressed as it’s revealed, legs wrapped around waists on the way to the bed. 

But he can’t touch Cas. He doesn’t even want to try, lest he see a replay of that wretched, forlorn look in Cas’ eyes when he realizes yet another part of life has passed him by. 

Cas takes over. “Why don’t you take a shower?” he suggests, his voice simultaneously heated and concerned. “You’ll feel better.” 

Dean sincerely doubts he’ll feel better when he’s wet, naked, and alone with nothing but thoughts of Cas, but he goes along with the suggestion anyway. He’s covered in grime, sweat, and blood from the hunt. In his experience, those three elements rarely combine to create a sexy atmosphere, though there’s always a first time for everything. Cas certainly looked like he didn’t mind Dean’s appearance when they were back with the shifter. 

The warm water of the shower beats over his back. For a moment, Dean relaxes into the simple luxury. His hands smooth over his skin, rubbing away the pains of the day. 

“Take your time,” a low voice tells him, just outside the shower curtain, and Dean damn near slips and breaks his neck. 

“What the hell?” he gasps, once he’s managed to recover some of his equilibrium. He pokes his head out of the curtain. Cas is leaning against the bathroom counter, still in his leather jacket, and looking remarkably composed for a ghost who snuck into the bathroom through a locked door. “Cas?”

“Finish your shower,” Cas tells him. His voice is calm and pleasant, but also doesn’t allow for any dissent. Dean gulps, while Cas just raises a quizzical brow. “Finish your shower, Dean,” he says, and Dean ducks behind the curtain. 

His dick has taken a definite interest in the proceedings. Even now, it starts to stir against his thigh, slowly filling. It’s wrong, it’s awful and sleazy and crass, but Dean can’t stop himself from sneaking his hand down and giving it a quick squeeze. Relief floods through his body and, quite out of his control, a low moan rips through the bathroom. 

“Don’t touch yourself,” Cas is quick to say. Heat floods Dean’s cheeks when he realizes he’s been caught out, but Cas doesn’t give him time to feel embarrassed. “If you come without letting me watch, I’m going to be pissed.” 

“Fuck,” Dean breathes. His knees are made of jello, and it takes a quick hand put on the bathroom wall to keep him upright. “Cas, I can’t…”

“I want you to soap up your shoulders,” Cas tells him. He’s speaking clearly enough that it’s like the shower curtain isn’t even an obstacle. It’s almost as if he’s right next to Dean, almost as if… “I want you to imagine that they’re  _ my _ hands, working those muscles, pushing into your skin.”

Dean lets his moan echo through the room. He’s had phone sex before, he knows how it works, but this is so much  _ better.  _ He can hear the wobble of Cas’ voice; if he pulled away the shower curtain, he would be able to see how Cas’ eyes rove over his body. 

“Follow down to your chest. Slowly. Tease yourself.” 

“Fuck,” Dean pants. His hands are trembling, but he follows Cas’ orders. He can’t imagine doing anything else. “Cas, please.” 

“You sound so good, Dean. I can just imagine how you look under there, all flushed and pink…” Cas’ voice trails off, and Dean feels viciously pleased that he’s able to have that effect on Cas, that he can crack an otherwise stoic man. 

Dean allows his thumb to skirt over his nipple. A rough-edged callus catches the sensitive flesh, and he can’t stop the needy little moan from leaving his lips. 

“Don’t touch your nipples,” is Cas’ immediate response. “Not yet. This is just a shower, Dean. Finish soaping up your chest. Move down to your waist and hips. Don’t you dare touch your cock.” 

Said cock is now eagerly awaiting attention, hard and straining up towards his belly. “Cas,” Dean whines. Cas bringing attention to his dick makes him yearn for relief all the more. Once the thought’s in his head, he can’t dislodge it. “Cas, please.” 

“Clean yourself up Dean. I wouldn’t touch your cock just now, so you have to wait. Drag your fingers over your hips. Really feel your body. I’d do it like that, explore you nice and slow. I’d take you apart.” 

“Damn it, that’s what you’re doing now,” Dean gripes, but he does what Cas says anyway. 

He’s aware, in the lame part of his mind, that he should be worried about how easy it is for him to follow Cas’ orders. It just feels natural, Cas’ calm, deep voice guiding him through the processes of a shower. Dean’s more aware of his skin now than he has been in months. But his mind is calm, free from the worries of what happens next, how he’s supposed to perform, how he can even be considering this. All he has to do is listen to Cas’ calm instructions. 

Cas talks him through washing his thighs, his calves, and his feet. His cock is now almost throbbing with neglect, precome beading at the tip to run down its length. Dean watches, his hand twitching towards it before he stops himself. Cas said to wait, so he’ll wait. 

“I think that’s enough,” Cas finally says. For his part, Dean is an odd combination of tense and boneless, mind calm, but his body screaming for what comes next. He fumbles at the controls of the shower before he turns the water off. 

The air in the bathroom is muggy and humid. Dean waits behind the shower curtain, uncertainty gripping him tighter than anticipation. Stupid, after Cas has talked him to full hardness, to be shy, but he can’t help it. 

“Don’t be shy,” Cas urges him. “There’s no one here but you and me. No reason to be modest in front of the dead.” 

“No reason for the dead to be so bossy,” Dean mumbles under his breath, but he pulls back the shower curtain in one, decisive movement. 

Cas hasn’t moved. Despite the steam and moisture of the room, he’s maintained his calm pallor. But his eyes...his eyes rove over Dean, almost like fingers tracing over his skin, all the way from his damp, spiked hair, down to his bowed legs. 

Dean’s automatic reaction is to fold his arms, cup his hands over himself, but he doesn't. His arms hang loosely at his sides, and he allows Cas to look his fill. It’s one of the most uncomfortable things he’s done in his entire life, yet it’s oddly empowering. 

Cas finally licks his lips, his eyes finding Dean’s through the steam. “Look at you,” he tells Dean, a raw edge peeking out of his voice. “You’re even more magnificent than I thought.” 

“Flattery gets you everywhere.” The joke falls a little flat in the atmosphere. Cas doesn’t even bother to acknowledge it. 

“Come closer,” Cas commands, and, helpless to disobey, Dean does. “Grab a towel on the way.” 

Though Cas hasn’t told him to, Dean scrubs the towel halfheartedly over his chest and waist, getting the worst of the water off. Cas doesn’t scold him, so it can’t have been that important to him. 

“Come with me,” Cas says, after a few moments. Dean’s not entirely dry, but that seems a trivial matter in the face of Cas’ command. He follows Castiel into the room, shivering as the cool air hits his damp skin. 

A glance from Cas to the bed tells Dean exactly where he’s wanted. Still, he swallows. The implications are enormous. He and Cas have been flirting with the edges of something huge all night. If they turn back now, they can still write it off as a laugh, something that got into their systems on a wild night after a hunt. 

Dean lays down in the center of the mattress. His cock slaps against his belly as he does so, leaving a sticky smear against his skin. Cas settles in at the foot of the mattress, and Dean unconsciously spreads his legs to make room for him. 

“Beautiful,” Cas murmurs. A shiver passes through Dean, and he turns his head to the side to avoid Cas’ eyes. He can’t...Cas is so sincere and earnest, like he believes every single compliment he gives Dean, and Dean can’t match it. 

“Hey,” Cas says, soft and concerned. “What’s wrong?” 

Dean’s chest shudders as he breathes deep. “I can’t...Cas, please. Just tell me…” 

“Of course, Dean. Relax, beautiful boy. I’ll take care of you.” 

The words shouldn’t make any sense. He’s not much younger than Cas, and Cas is a damn ghost. He’s not capable of taking care of anyone. But the second Cas says it, something in Dean believes him; beyond reason, beyond logic. The tension evaporates from his body, leaving him fuzzy and pliant. 

“God, the things that I would do to you,” Cas murmurs, so softly that Dean thinks perhaps he wasn’t meant to hear it. Cas’ fingers twitch on his thighs, and a sympathetic pain rockets through Dean. 

“Cas,” he pants, already half undone. “Please, tell me what, what do you—” 

“Trace those lovely lips for me,” Cas says, his voice even. “Feel their shape. They’re gorgeous.” 

Normally, Dean tries to ignore his lips, girlish and plump. They’ve started way too many bar fights in their time. He’s heard too many people leer  _ cocksucking lips  _ for him to feel really comfortable with them. But Cas turns his mouth into something sensual, something to be admired for its own sake. He runs his thumb over the swell of his lower lip and can finally appreciate it for what it is. 

“Suck on your fingers,” Cas tells him, and Dean does, sliding his index and middle fingers into his mouth, up to the furthest knuckle. He locks eyes with Cas, moaning as he sees the open hunger on his face. 

“God, Dean,” Cas groans. His fingers clench into fists on his thighs. “Stroke down your chest.  _ Don’t  _ touch your nipples,” he adds sharply, seeing where Dean immediately wants to go. Dean whines in frustration, but obeys. He steers his fingers away from his nipples, concentrating instead on his collarbones and the valley between his pecs. The fine hairs rise on his chest in response to his teasing touches, almost as if they’re beckoning him forth. 

With one hand stroking down his chest and the other hand occupied with his mouth, Dean feels wanton, open. He doesn’t realize he’s spreading his legs further until Cas’ gaze dips down to his groin. “We’ll get there eventually,” Cas promises, a smile spreading across his face. “For now, take your fingers out of your mouth. Now, stroke your nipples. Lightly.” 

Dean’s skin is yearning for a harsher touch, but he obeys. The moisture on his fingers, combined with the coolness of the room, has his nipples tightening into two taut nubs. Dean’s hips arch up in a futile search for friction against his aching cock. “Cas, please, I need more, Cas—” 

“Pinch them. Whatever you want.” 

Relief floods through Dean as he follows Cas’ instructions. He pinches and rolls the buds between his fingers, keening as sharp little spikes of pleasure-pain shiver through his skin. 

“Tell me what you’re feeling,” Cas demands. 

Dean groans. “It’s so fucking good, but it’s not enough, I need...Cas, please, let me touch my cock, it hurts, please—” 

“We’ll get there soon enough,” Cas promises. “I wouldn’t take mercy on you, even though you do beg so prettily.” He grins at Dean, white gleaming from his smile. “Stroke over your stomach.” 

His stomach is another problem area that Dean tends to avoid. Even though hunting provides pretty good exercise, a lifetime of eating burgers, fries, and pies, and drinking cheap beer, has a tendency to add up the inches around the waistline, and Dean never learned how to enjoy things in moderation. But Cas asked, so he runs his fingers over his stomach, down to his hips. “Down your thighs. Don’t touch your cock.” 

It’s torture to drag his nails down his thighs. His touch is so close to where he wants it, and yet so far. His cock is flushed an angry red and it twitches against his skin, but Dean obeys. He doesn’t touch. 

It doesn’t stop him from pleading with Cas, his hips rolling in small circles against the mattress. Sweat beads over his body, completely ruining the effect of his shower. He’s panting and whimpering, alternating between squinting his eyes shut and keeping them open so he can watch Cas. 

“Please, please, Cas. Please, let me—”

“You’ve been so good. So good for me, Dean. Touch your cock.” 

Shaking, gasping, Dean wraps his fingers around his aching dick. His automatic impulse is to strip it in fast, quick strokes, pushing himself towards orgasm, but a deeper feeling makes him stop. He keeps his grip loose and his strokes slow. He’s aided by the precome leaking from his slit, turning his fingers slick as he runs them up and down his length. It’s the worst kind of tease, made all the more unbearable because he’s torturing himself, but it’s worth it to see the hunger in Cas’ eyes. 

“Fuck,” Cas breathes. He licks his lips. “You’re a fucking treasure.” 

Dean manages a cocky grin, even though it feels like every inch of him is on fire. “What next?” 

“Don’t be arrogant,” Cas cautions. “Keep doing what you’re doing. Whatever you do, don’t come.” 

Dean’s balls draw up tighter, but he doesn’t dare increase either his grip or his speed. He does make a small noise of distress and loss when Cas unfolds himself from the foot of the bed and disappears. “It’s fine, I’ll be right back. I just need—” 

A small bottle lands next to Dean on the covers. Without looking at it, he knows what he’ll find. Sure enough, when his free hand gropes for it, he finds his bottle of lube. Fucking sneaky-ass ghost, going through his bag.

“Get your fingers slick.” Cas sounds almost breathless, which is ridiculous. He’s dead, he doesn’t need to breathe, and therefore can’t be breathless. But there he is, leaning forward, eyes eagerly fixed on Dean’s cock, his chest rising and falling with his rapid, nonexistent breaths. 

Dean wants to make a show of it, to tease Cas as much as Cas is teasing him, but he’s not that smooth. Instead, he fumbles with the bottle, slopping way more lube than he needs over his fingers and the bedspread, but he doesn’t care about that. Can’t, not when Cas is staring at him. 

“Spread your legs a little more.” Cas’ voice is barely more than a whisper. “Let me see.” 

A flush spreads all the way through Dean, but he can’t stop to think, not now. He digs his heels into the mattress and opens himself to Cas’ gaze. 

“Oh fuck, Dean, the things that I would do to you,” Cas murmurs. 

Dean’s not so far gone as to miss the quick flash of pain across Cas’ face. “Like what?” he asks, redirecting Cas with a challenging, cocky tone. 

“Just for starters, I’d spread your cheeks so I could look at that beautiful little hole of yours. And then, I’d kiss you, right over it. Softly at first, but then I’d run my tongue over your hole.” 

Dean’s panting just listening to the words. He wants to grip tighter around his dick, but he holds off. “Then what?”

Cas’ eyes flutter shut and he moans, caught up in his own fantasy. “Then I’d start tracing the outside, round and round, until you loosened up enough to let me inside. I’d tongue-fuck you until you were begging for me—” 

Cas’ eyes snap open. He focuses on Dean with predatory intent. “Dean,” he says, voice turning into something as sweet and dark as molten chocolate. “I want you to circle a finger around your hole. Just circle it.” 

Dean whines deep in his throat as he reaches past his cock and his balls to stroke over his perineum and then further back. While he’s no stranger to this, it has been a few weeks, and it takes effort to relax.

“Then I’d press, just a little bit. Don’t stop stroking your cock, Dean.” 

The dual sensations are almost more than he can take. His sightless eyes stare up at the ceiling as he presses against the resistance of his hole. He wants, so badly, to feel  _ full,  _ but Cas hasn’t told him—

“Dean, can you hear me?” 

Dean nods, mindlessly, but Cas repeats the question. “I need you to use your words, love.” 

“Yeah, Cas, I’m here, fuck, can I, I mean, I wanna, please, just let me—” 

He’s caught for words, knowing what he wants, but not how to express it. Cas takes over; Cas takes care of him. “Push inside, Dean. Slowly. I want you to feel it.” 

Dean’s chest heaves as he follows Cas’ orders. He pushes his finger inside his hole, hips squirming in uncertainty. He doesn’t know whether to push up into his grip around his cock or into the finger slowly spearing him. 

“Fuck, Dean, look at you. You’re doing so good, you’re being so good for me.” 

Tears prick at the corners of Dean’s eyes. It’s absurd to feel this way, but Cas’ words soothe over something inside him that he didn’t even know was hurt. 

“You like that?” The question is rhetorical; Cas is able to see the blurts of precome oozing out of his cock. “You like being told that you’re good? Because you are Dean, you’re so good for me. Fuck yourself with your finger. Do it slow, so you feel it.” 

Dean’s wrist twinges uncomfortably, but he starts fucking himself, following Cas’ instructions. The slow pace makes him ache, but every time he thinks about speeding up, he’ll hear Cas whispering, “Good boy. Dean, you look so pretty like this. You sound so good for me.” 

Dean whimpers. He’s trembling; he can’t take any more of this. “Cas, please,” he chokes out. “Please, I need—”

“You need more?” 

Dean nods helplessly, then sobs in relief as Cas asks, “Can you take another finger?” Cas smiles, warm and pleased. “Good boy. Two fingers now. And you can speed up a little, Dean.” 

A rough groan bursts out of Dean’s throat as he complies. The shock of the stretch and burn jolts through him; he was probably a little too rough and quick adding that second finger, but it feels so  _ good.  _ He was so empty before, and now Cas is filling him up. 

“I don’t know how I’d manage to hold myself back from fucking this lovely ass, but I’d try. Oh Dean, are you close?” Dean manages a few quick nods, and then, remembering before, gasps out an affirmative. 

“So close, Cas please, please just—”  _ Touch me,  _ he was going to say, but he bites back the words. “Please, let me come, let me—”

“Twist your fingers for me Dean. You know what you’re looking for?” 

“Yes,  _ oh fuck—’ _

Dean’s back arches as his fingertips press against his prostate. It’s a zing of pleasure racing through his body, pooling in his groin. His hand works over his cock, his slow pace now a torture. 

“How close are you?” Cas asks, sounding breathless with the question. 

“I’m... _ fuck, Cas,  _ I’m close…” 

“Wait for a little bit. Slow down. I don’t want you to come just yet.”

A whine erupts from Dean’s throat, even as he slows the movement of his hands. He’s so tense and strung out, hovering on the edge of something explosive, but he stops. 

There’s a faint shadow shifting over him. Dean opens his eyes to see Cas looming over him. His pink lips are parted, his eyes dark. It might be Dean’s own need and desire coursing through him, but he thinks he sees a soft pink flush chasing itself across Cas’ cheeks. 

“You can do it, I know you can,” Cas whispers. He licks at his lips, his eyes flicking down Dean’s body to where Dean’s fingers are disappearing into his own body. “I don’t...Dean, god, you sound so good and you look so good...I don’t know where to look.” 

“Wherever you want Cas, just please, please, let me come—” 

“You beg so pretty for me,” Cas says. He leans in close and for one, wild moment, Dean thinks that Cas might kiss him, but then Cas pulls back to sit at the foot of the bed, between his legs. “You’ve been so good for me, Dean. Make yourself come, however you want.” 

Cas’ words unleash the fire boiling just underneath his skin. Dean starts jacking his cock, faster and harder, his thumb rubbing just underneath the head on each upstroke. As he does that, he fucks himself harder on his fingers, the digits rubbing mercilessly over his prostate. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Cas, oh my god, oh fuck, Cas—” 

_ “God,”  _ Cas says, quietly and fervently, “that’s it, come for me, Dean.” 

Every muscle in Dean’s body tenses and locks. His back bows in an impossible arch and everything stops — the rotation of the earth, his heart. He can  _ feel  _ his balls tightening,  _ feel  _ his cock straining and pulsing in his hand as he comes in messy stripes over his belly and chest. The force of his orgasm pulls the breath from his lungs, until he’s gasping with it. 

Sometime later, he comes back to himself. Cas’ voice rumbles over him, low and soothing, the praise soaking over his skin. “...so gorgeous, Dean, you looked so good, you  _ sounded... _ Dean, can you open your eyes for me, please?” 

Dean obeys the gentle request, blinking open his eyes to look at Cas’ face, almost touching his. “There you are,” Cas breathes. He grins and Dean mimics the gesture. “How are you feeling?”

Dean takes stock. His ass aches, in the way that promises he’s going to feel it tomorrow, and his muscles are vaguely sore from where they locked up too tensely. But more than any of the small hurts, he feels...weightless. Thoughtless, careless. He’s almost floating, his brain encompassed in a lazy haze. He would term the feeling ‘joy,’ except it’s a little too mellow to really fit the description. 

For the first time in god knows how long, Dean feels  _ complete.  _

“I’m good,” he tells Cas, even though it’s a pale description of everything he’s feeling. “That was...that was good. I’m good.” His lips curve into a smile he doesn’t need to sculpt. 

“Good.” Cas smiles back, a little shyly. Absurd for him to decide on modesty now. “I know that we never, ah, talked about any of this—” 

“Shut up,” Dean tells him, closing his eyes to try and block out his depressing reality. If he does that, he can almost pretend that he can feel Cas’ heat, that Cas is just holding himself back, that in a moment, Cas is going to lean over and kiss him. 

It doesn’t happen. Of course it doesn’t happen. But just for one second, Dean feels a searing loss tearing through him, leaving him open and aching. 

“You should get yourself cleaned up,” Cas finally says. 

Reluctantly, Dean opens his eyes. Cas is still hovering close to him, like he can’t bear to be parted. It’s difficult for Dean to suppress the urge to pull him even closer, especially when Cas reaches out towards him, his palm flat. 

“I wish I could…” Cas begins, a small frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“It’s okay.” It’s not; there’s nothing about this that’s okay. Dean  _ wants,  _ he wants to touch Cas and kiss him, and ruffle his hair, and bite his ass, and pinch his cheeks, and wash his hair, and do everything that people do when they’re in…

_ Well, shit.  _

To distract himself from his thoughts, Dean mimics Cas’ gesture with his own hand. “I’ve been trying,” Cas begins. Their palms aren’t touching, but almost. “And I think, if I…” His forehead creases as though he’s in deep thought, before he moves forward. 

His palm presses against Dean’s. 

The sight alone makes Dean want to whoop and cheer. He wants to grab his phone and take a picture of it, just so he has proof, but then he stops and reconsiders. 

There’s no sensation of warmth against his palm. There’s none of the imperfections that come with touching another human: no calluses, no scars, no ragged nails or burns. It’s almost like pressing his palm against glass; smooth, impersonal, cold. 

Dean swallows and pulls his hand away. He looks up at Cas and sees a chasm of yearning so deep that he can’t help but fall into it. “Cas,” Dean whispers, hoping the simple syllable can encompass everything he’s feeling, the immutable truth that while he might be able to go on without Cas, he doesn’t  _ want  _ to do any of this without him. 

Cas gets it. Cas always does. 

“You should clean yourself off and go to sleep. You’ll need another shower in the morning.” 

A rueful smile tugs at Cas’ mouth, and Dean can’t help but laugh. 

-_-_-_-_-_-

The next two weeks are quite possibly some of the best of Dean’s life. 

He and Cas meander through the Heartland, taking jobs as they come. They’re mostly small affairs, salt and burns, though there is one exciting job where they clear out a nest of vampires. Mostly, Dean sets himself to the task of enjoying each and every minute. 

There are quite a lot of them to enjoy. There are the breakfasts they share, though Cas never eats. There’s the pleasure of putting the puzzle of a case together, his and Cas’ minds working nimbly around each other. There’s the joy of watching Cas work, his quicksilver mind sliding to conclusions Dean would have never arrived at. There’s the ritual of sharing a drink at the end of the night. Cas doesn’t partake, but Dean’s spent so much time drinking alone that his mere company soothes something vital in his chest. 

And then there are the nights. 

If anyone had asked him previously, Dean would have said he was probably a little bit kinky. The motivations that lead someone to a lifetime of hunting rarely correlate with vanilla appetites. He likes it a little rough, enjoys getting manhandled and having someone else crawl up over his body to take what they will. But Cas unlocks an entirely new facet of him, and Dean falls happily into it. 

Under Cas’ instructions, Dean fucks himself with his fingers, and then with a dildo he buys in one of the towns they stop in. He kneels facedown on the bed and spreads himself for Cas, flushing in ashamed arousal as Cas praises him, cock drooling onto the bedspread beneath him. He slaps his ass, the sound echoing through the room and his palm stinging. Then, when Cas notes, somewhat smugly, that he likes that a little too much, Dean buys a stiff hairbrush, just for extracurricular purposes. 

It’s the happiest he’s ever been, yet a melancholy pall hangs over him. With every orgasm, every laugh, every sweet moment, Dean’s still haunted by the knowledge that he’ll never be able to be with Cas the way that he wants. Every time that thought occurs to him, he pushes it away. It’s selfish to want more when he’s this happy. He thinks of his dad and Bobby, and almost everyone else stuck in this godforsaken life. Most people never get to brush this kind of happiness.

The only cloud on his horizon comes from Bobby, who calls him late one afternoon. He and Cas are in the motel room, pretending to research, but really, Dean is trolling through various websites and Cas is doing whatever ghosts do when they’re not really reading the book in front of them. His phone rings and Dean gratefully takes the distraction.

“Hey, Bobby, how’s it hanging?”

There’s a short pause as Bobby either reevaluates their entire relationship or wonders whether he’s managed to get the wrong number.

“Thought you said you were going to do a better job of keeping in touch. I gotta wait for three weeks and then call  _ you _ ?” 

“Sorry, Bobby. It’s just...Some stuff’s come up.” Dean glances at Cas, who returns his look with a curious tilt of his head. “I’ve been busy.” He looks deliberately away from Cas’ smirk, but not quickly enough. His cheeks still flush in a memory of exactly how busy he’s been. 

“Yeah?” Bobby’s tone is a little argumentative, but he at least doesn’t ask what Dean’s been doing. “Well, you’re about to be a little bit busier.” 

“Aw, come on, Bobby, I was planning on taking a vacation,” Dean complains. His tone garners him a raised eyebrow from Cas. “What do you have that’s so important?” 

“I’ve got another rash of demon sightings close to Sinclair, Wyoming. Cattle mutilations, shooting stars, people speaking in tongues, the whole nine yards.” 

Cold dread seeps through Dean’s blood. “No. I’m not…” He looks at Cas, who curiously meets his gaze. “We’re not doing that again.” 

“We? You got someone with you?” 

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. Stupid to assume that Bobby would overlook his slip of the tongue. “Yeah. Always safer with a partner, right?” 

“Uh-huh. And would this partner happen to be among the living or otherwise?” 

“I guess Cas got himself back together. Stella found her groove and whatnot.” 

Bobby grunts, which tells Dean that he’s not going to forget the topic of conversation, but also that he’s moving on to other matters. “Look, I wouldn’t ask if I had any other hunters available, but it’s getting gnarly out there for everyone. I don’t need much; I just need you to go there and suss out the situation. This time, when I say recon, will you damn well listen to me?” 

Cas is leaning in closer to the phone. His expression is a mixture of concern and worry. His eyes flick back and forth between Dean and the phone as he starts to chew on his lower lip. 

“Bobby, we’re not...We can’t.” 

Dean still has nightmares about that hunt. The demon, Cas, possession...All of it lingers in his mind and comes out to play when he’s asleep. He can’t go through that again. 

“Look, just check it out, if you can. I know it’s a lot to ask, but things are bad all over.” 

Dean mutters something, hopefully not too shitty, and hangs up the phone. He stares at it for a few long minutes before he dares to look up at Cas. 

“That was Bobby?” Dean nods. He’s not being the best conversational partner, but he can’t speak around the lump in his throat. “What did he want?” 

“He wants…” Dean shakes his head. “There’s been demon omens in Wyoming. He wants us to go there and check it out.” 

Dean’s spent a good two weeks cataloguing most of Cas’ expressions, but he’s never seen this one. Fear shines in the whites of his eyes, but there’s determination in the set of his mouth. 

“I told him no,” Dean says, because that look bodes nothing good for either of them. “We’re not doing demon hunts. You told me not to the last time, and you were right, I wasn’t ready. We’re not—” 

“I’m not going to argue with you,” Cas interrupts, derailing Dean’s entire tirade. At Dean’s stunned look, he offers up a small smile. “You think I’m going to argue for you to put yourself in harm’s way? To throw yourself into the fire? Shapeshifters, werewolves, ghosts… They’re one thing, but demons are an entirely different fight. I’m not going to beg you to join it.” Cas’ fingers creep across the table, almost as though he wants to entwine them with Dean’s. “It’s not a horrible thing, to be safe.” 

Relief floods through Dean. He’d been so worried that Cas was going to insist they go, that they  _ do the right thing.  _ He’s spent his entire life doing the right thing; he’s given blood, sweat, and loved ones in pursuit of  _ doing the right thing.  _

For once, he’s going to do something for himself.

\---

His resolve lasts for two days before everything falls apart. 

When he looks back later, Dean will remember how agonizingly boring the whole day was. The routine was the same: wake up, steal as much from the motel’s cheap, continental breakfast as he can carry, get on the road, bicker with Cas over music, stop at a gas station and load up on jerky and soda, and then back on the road. If he’d had to pick this day out of a lineup, he would have been hard pressed to do so. 

If he was paying attention, perhaps he would have noticed that Cas was a little more withdrawn, his edges a little paler. He would have noticed the faint crease between Cas’ eyebrows, a sure sign that Cas had something on his mind. But he’s distracted, too in love with the idea of being on the road with Cas, with being selfish, with being  _ himself.  _

He doesn’t notice anything amiss until he stops for the night. He pulls into the parking lot and glances over at Cas, who looks like he’s fighting a stomach ache. “What’s wrong with you?” 

Cas grimaces. His hand grips at his chest, twisting the fabric of his jacket and shirt. “I don’t…” He looks up at Dean, horror slowly creeping over his face. “I thought it was just me, I thought that maybe I was just…” He breaks off in a low gasp, lurching forward until his forehead touches the dash. “Dean, Dean there’s something—” 

Thunder rumbles through the sky, but there isn’t a cloud in sight. Light flashes, searingly bright, and Dean throws his arm up over his eyes to shade them. For a minute, it seems as though the world is ripping apart at the seams, and then—

As soon as they appeared, the excruciating light and noise vanish, and then it’s nothing more than a normal afternoon. 

Dean breathes a short sigh of relief. “Jesus, what the hell was that? I thought—” He stops talking when he looks to his side. 

The passenger seat is empty. 

Dean looks wildly around, searching for any explanation as to what could be happening. Cas isn’t in the backseat; he’s not outside the car. Dean calls his name, growing increasingly louder and more panicked with each second that passes with no Cas. 

“Cas? Cas?  _ Cas?”  _

~*~*~*~*~*~*


	11. washed out in the rain

~*~*~*~*~*~*

  
  


Dean performs every ritual he can think of, knowing all the while they won’t work. He felt it in the car: Cas is gone.

Much like before, every summoning yields nothing. He doesn’t get a flicker from a Ouija board or any other device. In a fit of desperation, he finds Pamela’s address and drives the eight hours to see her. 

She opens the door before he can knock (fucking psychics) and looks him up and down. “Hard couple of days?” she asks cryptically, before turning and walking back into the bowels of her house. 

The decor inside is a mixture between everything a psychic is supposed to be and a weird roadie collection. Different paraphernalia dot the walls and floors, and Dean has to step over a crystal ball of all things. He sits down on Pamela’s couch and accepts her offer of beer. 

“I don’t think I can help you,” Pamela says bluntly, folding her legs and sitting in the armchair opposite him. 

“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask,” he counters, killing the neck of his bottle in a single drink. 

Pamela raises a brow in a wordless taunt —  _ Psychic, remember? —  _ before she holds out her hand. “Give it here.” At his questioning look, she beckons once more. “Whatever artifact you want me to look at. Give it here.” 

Dean’s fingers play at the fastening of the cuff. Pamela looks at him expectantly before holding out her hand. 

“Be careful with this,” he warns, dropping the cuff into her palm. 

“Wouldn’t dream of hurting it,” Pamela replies, still a little too airy for his tastes, but it’s not as though Dean has any other options. She closes her eyes, fingers running along the length of the cuff. Her fingernails dip into the etchings as she starts to hum. The sound comes deep from her throat, almost guttural. 

Finally, she opens her eyes. A sad frown twists at her lips as she hands the cuff back to him. “Sorry,” she says. “I can tell that there was a spirit attached to that, strong one too. Devoted.” Her dark eyes meet Dean’s, and though she doesn’t say anything, Dean knows she understands exactly how devoted Cas was. “But now...there’s nothing.” 

Though he was expecting the words, they still come as a blow. Dean reels backward on the couch. He feels like someone just stole all the air out of the room. All he can think about is Cas, his voice, the way his hands would grip his knees when he really wanted something, the warmth in his eyes whenever he smiled—

“He meant a lot to you,” Pamela says. Her voice is pitched low, almost soothing, but Dean wants no part of it, her psychic mumbo-jumbo crap that’s meant to make little old ladies feel better. 

“No shit,” he finally growls, fingers clenching into a fist. He pounds his fist into his knee, only distantly registering the pain. “Cas was…” He trails off, unwilling to spill his soul to Pamela. The look she gives him makes him believe she knew what he was going to say anyway. 

_ Cas was everything.  _

Fucking psychics. 

  
  


-_-_-_-_-_-_-

It’s probably bad manners, but Dean doesn’t bother staying. It’s not like he and Pam are bosom buddies. They could probably share a beer and be happy, but Dean’s not in a drinking mood. Or rather, he  _ is _ in a drinking mood, but instead of a six-pack, he wants to demolish an entire liquor store. It doesn’t make him the best drinking partner, so he thanks Pamela for her help and goes to leave. 

“Don’t give up hope,” Pamela says, before he can step out the door. 

Dean hates that he turns, hates the little spark that springs to life in his chest. “Is Cas…?” He can’t bear to ask the question. 

Shame curls in him as Pamela shakes her head. “I don’t know anything about that.” At Dean’s dirty look, she just raises her shoulders in a shrug. “Look, psychic or not, the future isn’t a firm thing. It changes with every choice you make. Turn right instead of left, and you’ve got an entirely new future laid out. Try and decipher that, you go insane. It’s more just something I say, you know. Make you feel better.” 

“Pamela, you’re really good at what you do, and you’ve helped me out a lot, but fuck you,” Dean says, without rancor. He really does like Pamela, but her words are cutting a little close to the quick for her to be really good company for him. 

“None taken,” she says, shrugging easily. “It’s usually my line of work to say what people want to hear, so the truth is nice every once in a while.” 

Dean thinks about shaking her hand and then thinks about hugging her. Neither of those options feels right, so he settles for dipping his head in a brief acknowledgement before he heads towards the Impala. 

“Oh, but Dean? You want a nickel’s worth of free advice, I’d head towards Sinclair, Wyoming.” Dean freezes at the name before turning back to look at her. Pamela shrugs, a rueful smile on her face. “I’m not getting much, but it’s just a feeling. There’s something there, something that’s important. You need to see it.” 

Dean waits, but she doesn’t offer any more than that. In fact, Pamela doesn’t speak again until he gets in the car. Then he hears her voice, as clearly as though she were speaking directly to him, despite the fact that twenty feet and the metal of the car separate them. 

“And Dean? Watch your back.” 

Dean rolls his eyes, puts the car in gear, and drives. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

So he heads to Sinclair, Wyoming. When the wisdom of Bobby and Pamela collide, who is he to say no? 

He keeps the radio on during the drive there, sticking to local stations in an attempt to get a feel for what’s happening. Most of the news is mind-numbingly boring: the town council voted to approve new funding for an additional park building, the county fair’s dates are announced, the local high school got a new principal. But buried amongst the mundanities are a few gems that get Dean’s blood pumping faster. 

_ Local farmers perplexed by waves of insects devouring local crops.  _

_ Several families in the area call for more rigorous water testing, in light of the strange, red water coming from their pipes.  _

_ Serious storms beset the region; local weathercasters confused at this change in seasonal patterns.  _

The locals of Sinclair, Wyoming might be confused as to what they’re currently enduring, but the signs are clear enough for any hunter worth their salt to read. Demons have descended upon the small town. Why, Dean has no idea. It seems as though demons would have better luck with the bigger cities. Why they seem to flock to these podunk towns with less than eight thousand residents, he doesn’t understand. 

He makes it into Sinclair by mid-afternoon and takes a turn around the small downtown area. It looks much the same as any other small town. There are several closed storefronts, victims of a shitty economy, as well as a Mom and Pop pharmacy and a dance studio. There’s a small, tired-looking church, whose sign proclaims an upcoming bake sale across from a small grocery store. 

None of these places scream  _ Demons hiding here!!! _ Dean wasn’t exactly expecting that, but it would be nice to have a hint. He does one last circuit around downtown, sighing when nothing jumps out at him. 

He makes his way to a small roadside motel. Both the clerk and the room have seen better days, but Dean’s spent the night in worse places, so he settles on the dusty mattress and opens his laptop. He scrolls through the local paper with a map of the town beside him, trying to see if he can find any points of convergence. As he searches, a thought keeps rising inside him, no matter how many times he tries to squash it back down. 

_ Cas would be able to find the pattern.  _

Cas was always better at finding the patterns in seemingly unrelated events. He had a knack for looking past the obvious and catching the unimportant details, one that Dean doesn’t share. Dean is an uncomplicated man: he sees the problem, he fixes the problem. Castiel was the one who had the nimble mind, the one that dances seamlessly from one problem to the next. Dean misses Cas all the time, from the moment he wakes to the moment he closes his eyes, but he misses him most in moments like these, when he feels Cas’ loss as keenly as a hole in his chest. 

Dean marks up the map, glancing between that and the screen. Despite his original confusion, there is a pattern starting to emerge. Demons normally work within a relatively narrow sphere of influence, and these are no exception. All events take place within the same ten square miles, and most are closer. Dean drags his marker along the map, working from instinct rather than rational thought. 

Most of the time, instinct works. When he finally draws back and sees what he’s done, he’s left with an oblong shape, one that almost resembles… “Oh, fuck,” Dean murmurs, his marker falling to the bed. 

It’s crude, but Dean can recognize the shape of a pentagram when he sees it. And nestled at the center of that pentagram is the local hospital. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The following morning, Dean dresses up in his best suit. He tugs at his tie several times, frowning until he's convinced it’s absolutely straight. He hates wearing the monkey suit, but there are some doors that are closed to a man dressed in jeans and flannel. 

Before he leaves the motel room, he does a quick weapons check. Salt, holy water, silver are all good. His gun nestles against the small of his back, hidden underneath his suit jacket. While it might not be any help in fighting off a demon, Dean can’t deny the comforting weight of it. Finally, he clasps Cas’ cuff around his wrist. There’s no real reason for him to wear it anymore; he believes Pamela when she says there’s no spirit attached to it anymore. But he can’t give it up. To do that would be to give up Cas, and Dean’s not ready to do that. He doesn’t know if he ever will be. 

When he walks through the doors of St. Mercy’s Hospital, he keeps his head up and his strides long. The nurse working the front desk looks up, her eyes roving appreciatively over his form as he flashes a smile. “Hello, I’m Inspector Page, here from the CMS.” He flips his badge at her, just long enough for her to see his picture staring back at her and not long enough for her to realize that the badge she’s looking at is actually a badge for the state police of Kansas. 

“An inspector?” The nurse might be susceptible to a flirty smile, but she’s professional enough to frown at him as she checks through the computer. “We didn’t hear anything about the hospital being inspected.” 

“Yeah, well, you know what happens if you warn people about an inspection?” Dean leans closer, whispering like he’s confiding a great secret. “They generally manage to sweep their dirty laundry away. We do our inspections unannounced, so we get a better idea of what’s really going on.” 

The nurse’s frown deepens, but it’s concern wrinkling her forehead, not suspicion. “If you’ll just wait while I call the Chief of Medicine, I’m sure he’ll be more than happy to walk you through the hospital—”

“No need….” A quick glance at the nurse’s badge provides him with a name. “Stacy. I’m sure I’ll run into him along the way. Besides, I prefer to do my first walkthrough alone. I get a better feel for the place that way, you know what I mean?” He looks around, pretending to examine the waiting room for flaws. “Besides, with a pretty little thing like you working the desk, how could there be anything wrong here?” 

Stacy the nurse rolls her eyes, but the flirtation landed exactly where he wanted it to. The phone finds its way back into the cradle, and some of the defensiveness leaves her shoulders. It’s doubtful that she’ll be calling anyone to inform them of his presence, which is exactly the way he wants it. 

“What time do you get off?” Dean has no intention of asking the nurse out, but if he can smooth the way, he’s willing to try the underhanded methods. 

“My shift ends at five.”

Dean flashes a grin he doesn’t feel. Cas’ cuff feels heavy around his wrist, reminding him of everything he’s lost. “Well, I’ll just have to try and finish up by then.” He grins again, feeling a little pang of guilt for leading Stacy the nurse on. 

“Whatever.” She rolls her eyes, but settles back into the chair. Dean winks at her, the gesture exaggerated, before he heads towards the doors proclaiming ‘EMERGENCY’ in bold red letters. 

He’s not entirely sure what he’s looking for, but whatever is wrong with this town, it’s here. He felt it from the second he entered the hospital: a prickle of power, of  _ wrongness,  _ sweeping over him, like walking through cobwebs or accidentally brushing up against a live wire. Whatever’s causing it, Dean is going to find it and end it. 

(And what then? He goes to Bobby’s and starts in on the serious business of killing his liver? He tries to track down his father, who does not want to be found, and beg forgiveness he’s not sure he wants anymore? He gives up hunting entirely and settles in the cheapest apartment he can find in California, content to be nothing more than Sam Winchester’s bum, broke brother? Perhaps the worst option of them all, he returns to hunting and tries to do singly what he’s now discovered he only likes to do as a double act?)

Dean walks through the corridors of the hospital, dodging nurses and orderlies alike. Several give him suspicious little squints, but Dean flashes his badge at them, and they quickly go about their day. Most don’t even bother to look twice at him. It’s amazing what a decent suit and a shot of unearned confidence can help you get away with. 

He makes his way through the first and second floors of the hospital without encountering anything more than a few narrowed glances (and a few appreciative ones as well; he might not be interested, but it doesn’t mean that he’s  _ blind).  _ The EMF in his pocket whirs, but it’s a weak noise and probably more bothered by the complicated machines in some of the rooms than any supernatural activity. If it weren’t for the pervasive gnawing of discontent along the back of his neck, Dean would be convinced that this is just a normal hospital. 

But it’s  _ there.  _ It’s intangible and sly, darting just out the corner of his eye. Look at it head-on and it disappears. There’s something in this hospital, and Dean will find it or… Well, the phrase ‘die trying’ gains new meaning in hunting. 

The higher the floor numbers go, the less activity Dean finds. By the eighth floor, there’s only a single orderly poking along. There’s something furtive in the way he pushes the mop bucket along the floor, almost as though he’s trying to cover a crime. Dean walks past him, but the EMF doesn’t even blip. He tries muttering  _ Christo  _ underneath his breath, but all it gets him is a strange look as the orderly hurries away. 

There’s something here, lurking at the edges of his awareness and understanding. Dean stands in the middle of the deserted corridor and looks around. The hallways are dark, except for the dim light filtering in through the windows. Several gurneys litter the corridors, along with other supplies. The whole floor looks like something straight out of a horror novel. Foreboding creeps down the back of Dean’s neck. 

“Hello?” he calls out. Call him a stupid blonde in a film, but it’s a normal human response he just can’t shake. “Anyone there?” 

Silence is his only answer. 

Dean’s hand gropes for his gun. Once he’s got it, he begins the lengthy process of examining every room. Nothing is out of place, there are no signs of struggle, no telltale smears of blood or viscera, but there’s something  _ wrong.  _ All of Dean’s senses are tingling now, in an endless blaring alarm of  _ Danger Dean Winchester, Danger, Danger.  _

Only one door on the floor is closed. Dean examines it, looking for traps and hex bags, anything that might give him a clue as to why this door is more important than any of the others. He finds nothing. It’s just a door, made out of the same cheap building materials as any of the others. The handle turns easily underneath his hand. 

The sound of machines reaches him first, the steady beeping of a heart monitor as well as the persistent rasp of a ventilator. Dean’s heart picks up its pace.

There’s something in the room with him. 

Like the rest of the floor, there are no lights on, but the sunlight drifting in from the windows illuminates a bed, with a figure in it. 

All the machines are hooked into that figure. 

Dean scans the room, gun at the ready. He doesn’t know what he’ll find in that bed — a ghoul? Demon? Something unknown but horribly terrifying? Inside his pocket, the EMF meter is screeching, denoting the presence of something otherworldly. 

“Hey, buddy,” Dean says, staying a good distance back from the bed. He has no desire to look directly at its occupant and see whatever new grotesquery is in store for him. “Wake up.” 

Unsurprisingly, the figure in the bed says nothing. 

Dean creeps closer. The sounds of the monitors and the ventilators never change. Finally, he stands over the bed. Bracing himself, he looks down. 

Into the unconscious face of Castiel Novak. 

Dean blanks. His brain ceases to process rational thought as well as any function required for life. He can’t breathe. It’s only due to muscle memory that he’s able to stand. Everything comes to a grinding halt as he stares down at Cas. 

That’s not...Cas is…

He’s gaping, gasping, shaking. He’s going to vomit. He’s going to pass out. A soundless scream writhes its way up from his chest and bursts, unheard, on his lips. He feels like he’s falling, deep into the pit of madness, where nothing makes sense, nothing—

The wickedly sharp point of a knife brings him back to his senses. It presses into the back of his neck, between the knobs of his spine, just hard enough to draw a single well of blood forward. 

“All right, bucko,” a voice behind him drawls, “you want to explain just what you’re doing here?” 

*~*~*~*~*~*


	12. hear me roar

*~*~*~*~*~*

  
  


Dean opens his mouth, but no words come out. He tries again, and this time manages a weak little rasp. 

“Try again there, hombre.” The knife pushes a little harder. “What the hell are you doing here, and how did you make it past the traps?” 

Dean’s reeling brain latches on to that question in a last-ditch effort to try and save his sanity. “Traps?” he manages to get out.

It’s not possible to hear someone roll their eyes, but Dean will swear that’s exactly what happens. “Yeah, genius. Traps.” 

The point of the knife retreats from his skin, but Dean doesn’t fool himself into thinking that he’s in any way safe. “Turn around. Slowly. Put your hands up where I can see them.” 

Dean complies. Normally, he would be thinking of ways to get out of this predicament, but he’s too busy with the glimpses of Cas he catches out of the corner of his eye. (It’s the same hair, same jaw, same nose, same damn everything except for the stubble. Someone’s let Cas go for a little while without giving him a good shave, but that can’t honestly be important, can it?) He does as he was told, even going so far as to peel his finger away from the trigger when he turns to face his attacker. 

It’s a man, shorter than him, with shaggy golden-brown hair. The expression on the man’s face is deadly serious, but there’s still a smarmy edge to it, like he’s fighting back all sorts of one-liners. There’s nothing remarkable about the way he’s dressed. In fact, he’s dressed in much the same fashion as Dean dresses, in boots, jeans, a button-down, and a jacket. The only thing that  _ is _ remarkable about the man is the weapon held in his right hand. 

Dean’s never seen anything like it before. At first glance, he would call it a knife, at second glance, a sword, but it’s neither of those. It’s a blade, gleaming an unearthly silver. It has three edges, tapering down into a point so fine, it almost disappears. If Dean focuses, he swears he can hear a faint ringing emanating from it. The man holds it as though he was born with it, his fingers playing easily over the hilt to flip it in his palm. 

“All right, hotshot. Drop the gun and kick it over here.” 

Dean obeys. As weird as this is, he doesn’t get the sense that this man is a demon. He hasn’t flashed a pair of black eyes at him yet, nor does he have the unmistakable stench of sulfur clinging to him. 

“All right. Now, once again, because it didn’t get into your skull the first time around, how did you get through the traps?” 

Dean casts his eyes towards the ceiling. There, painted on the tiles in a shade just slightly darker than that of the tile, is an unmistakable devil’s trap. He looks down at the other man. 

“Well, seeing as I’m not a demon, devil’s traps don’t generally work.” 

Hazel eyes narrow. Dean barely avoids rolling his eyes as the man digs into his back pocket and comes out with a flask. He knows these next steps well and only flinches the smallest amount as cold water spatters on his face. He spits the excess away and rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. “Satisfied?” he asks, putting perhaps a little more snark than was necessarily required into the question. 

“Okay, so if you’re not a demon, then what the hell are you?” The knife still hasn’t lowered, but at least the man is regarding him with a little less blatant suspicion. 

“Hunter?” 

If he thought that would relieve the burden of suspicion, he was wrong. If anything, the man’s eyes narrow further. “If you’re a hunter, then what the hell are you doing here? Nothing happens here.” 

“What the hell are  _ you _ doing here?” Dean’s patience is normally a limited resource, but when Cas...when Cas’ body is less than twenty feet away from him, it’s almost nonexistent. “What do you want with…” He can’t bear to look at Cas. He can’t even say his name. 

“Oh no. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m the one with the knife, so I’ll be the one asking the questions. Now, and quickly, if you don’t mind. Tell me what you want.” 

“There are demon omens all over this town, man!” Dean throws his hands up in frustration. “Any hunter worth anything could see it. I got a call from Bobby Singer telling me to head to Sinclair, and after that, it was pretty easy to see where the epicenter of everything was.” 

“Those demons are taken care of. You can go now.” 

With that, the man seems content to dismiss him. Like hell is Dean willing to be dismissed. 

“What do you want with Cas?” 

It’s probably foolish to toss Cas’ name into an already delicate situation. Dean didn’t realize it would be like tossing gasoline on a forest fire. 

The man surges forward. The tip of his knife is pointed directly at Dean’s throat, and he presses until it digs into the soft skin. Dean wheezes, grappling with him until he gets a good hold on the man’s sleeve. 

“Who the fuck are you?” Dean was expecting the rage in the man’s eyes, but what he didn’t expect was the sliver of fear. Whoever he is...he’s afraid for Cas. 

“My name is Dean Winchester. I’m John Winchester’s son. I’m a hunter.” Dean raises his hands in supplication, trying to minimize the threat he poses. 

“How the fuck do you know about Cas?” The question begins as a snarled curse, but it tapers off into little more than a whisper. When Dean turns his head, he sees what’s caught the man’s attention. Cas’ cuff peeks out from underneath his sleeve. It’s innocuous, even in someone who was supposed to be in the professional world, but the man’s eyes are fixated on it like Dean’s just shown him the Holy Grail. 

Quick as a snake, the man’s hand snaps out and seizes his wrist. He tugs at Dean’s shirt, careless of the cheap fabric, until the cuff is exposed. Before Dean can think to jerk away, the man undoes the clasp, and the cuff sits in the palm of his hand. 

“How did you get this?” he whispers, clutching the cuff close to his chest. “I looked...Everything was gone when I got here…” 

Dean feels as though the ground is crumbling underneath his feet. The different threads are finally starting to wind themselves together, but they’re still frustratingly out of reach. “I got it from Bobby Singer. I don’t know where he got it from.” 

“Fucking...those vultures,” the man sighs. His eyes close, and he holds the cuff close to his lips. Dean’s chest twists —  _ that’s his, that’s Cas’, it’s theirs —  _ but he keeps his mouth shut. “Someone else must have stripped his belongings and truck. By the time I got here, everything was gone. Not that I cared. I was too busy…” 

The man’s stricken gaze lands on the bed. Though it feels as though his stomach is going to drop out of his body, straight on through the floor, Dean turns around and follows his gaze. 

Even as a ghost, Cas was so vibrantly  _ alive  _ that Dean’s brain has a curious moment of dissonance between the Cas he knew and the motionless figure in the bed. The hair is the same, dark and wild, spread across the bed, though it’s longer here. Same for the beard. While Cas has been getting decent medical care, the barber services are clearly somewhat lacking. 

Those are just the small details. What Dean’s brain shies away from are the huge, glaring differences. Like how, when Dean knew him, Cas never had an intubation tube shoved down his throat, or an IV strapped to his elbow. Or dozens of machines hooked up to various parts of his body. 

Something vicious and painful tears through Dean’s chest. He stretches out one shaking hand towards Cas — to finally  _ touch  _ him, but he stops halfway. This isn’t Cas. His Cas is shining, bright, eyes snapping fury and righteousness, hair flopping into his eyes. This is just an empty husk.

Dean draws away from the bed. Heat prickles along the back of his neck as he glances over to see the other hunter watching him, but he refuses to be embarrassed. Cas is — Cas  _ was —  _ everything to him, and he refuses to pretend differently. 

The hunter’s eyes are clouded, but they no longer hold suspicion. Instead, he surveys Dean with a mixture of concern, curiosity, and sympathy. “Dean Winchester,” he finally says, his tone finally losing its hard, sneering edge. He holds out a hand. “Wish I could say I was happy to meet you, but…” His expression twists as he looks at Cas’ bed. “Gabriel Novak.” 

His hand hangs in midair for several awkward moments before Gabriel lets it drop. Dean stares at him in a mixture of disbelief and confusion. “You’re supposed to be dead.” 

Gabriel’s brows raise. “Um...I’m not.” 

“Yeah, I can see that.” Dean swallows and looks back between Cas’ body and Gabriel. “What the hell is going on here?” 

Gabriel frowns. “Yeah, I think I should be asking  _ you _ that same question. Like, for starters, I know why  _ I’m _ here, but why are you? Cassie isn’t known for making friends, so you can’t possibly be that. Does he owe you money? I don’t think you’re going to be able to collect.” 

Dean is torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to punch him. He can appreciate the dark, gallows humor, but does Gabriel not realize that Castiel isn’t just a guy, he’s  _ the  _ guy? 

“It’s a long story. And, uh, you’re probably not going to believe it. Or like it.” 

“Try me, big boy. I’ve probably heard a lot worse.” 

Dean licks his lips, mentally shuffling through the details. He already knows there are definitely some parts he’s going to be skipping. “Well, uh, it was like this—” 

Both he and Gabriel are saved from a lengthy and no doubt awkward rendition by a soft breeze. The lights, which had been off, flicker into life for a few seconds before popping. Gabriel flips the knife in his hand, his eyes darting towards the door. “Fucking demons,” he snarls. “I thought, after I’d dealt with the last batch, they would leave this place alone, but I guess not. They probably followed your trail.” 

Dean looks at the door. While the signs are similar, he doesn’t think it’s a  _ demon _ getting ready to appear in the room. Before he can tell Gabriel that there’s no cause for concern, however, the lights flicker again, turning the room somehow darker than before. 

Dean draws in a shaky breath. He knows this feeling. He knows—

He whips around to face the far corner of the room. Standing there, in the shadows, is Cas, looking like he went ten rounds with a baseball bat and lost. He’s pale, almost translucent. If his skin were capable of changing, Dean would say he had large circles under his eyes. As it is, Cas only gives the impression of exhaustion, the aura of it clinging to him like a bad smell. The ever-present smudge of dirt on his cheek looks like it’s gotten bigger. 

Dean’s heart cracks in half. 

“Cas,” he whispers, joy and fear mingling in his voice. “Cas, are you—” 

Cas’ eyes meet his. They’re dull, like someone leeched all the color out of them. They’re still the most beautiful thing Dean’s ever seen. 

“Dean,” Cas breathes. Even his voice is a pale imitation of what it was formerly. Cas smiles at him, and it looks like it takes all his energy to do so. “Dean, where—”

Cas’ eyes flick over his shoulder, and Dean watches as shock overtakes his features. “Gabriel?” he whispers. The raw emotion in his voice is something beyond what Dean’s ever heard from him, and he pauses to think how he would feel, to be told of Sam’s death only to discover the truth. “Gabriel, they told me—” 

“Cas?” Gabriel’s voice wobbles. “Cas, is that—” 

The music is swelling, the handkerchiefs are waving, women in the audience are weeping. It’s a perfect family reunion, or at least it is until Cas catches sight of the bed beyond them. 

“Cas,” Dean begins, but Cas floats by him like Dean is the ghost. “Cas, look, I’m not sure what’s happening here, but—”

His explanation is cut short by the lights blazing to a brilliant, overwhelming glare before shattering. 

  
  


~*~*~*~*~*~*


	13. made us blackened or blue

~*~*~*~*~*~*

**_Six Months Ago_ **

  
  


It all starts when Gabriel calls him with information about a hunt. 

Gabriel is not just Castiel’s brother, but his only friend, and, putting most of his eggs in the solitary basket of Gabriel Novak can be an alarming prospect. Occasionally, Castiel needs to take some time away from his brother, which is exactly what he’s been doing when his phone rings. 

“What?” he says, speaking through a mouthful of lackluster fries. “You miss me?” 

“Yeah, life’s just not the same without your sparkling personality. Listen. A lot of demon omens around Rawlins, Wyoming. Weird weather, crop circles, kid born with no eyes.” 

“Gross.” Castiel gulps down his mouthful and washes it down with a beer. “I assume you want to work it?” 

“Got it in one. Look, I’m about a day and a half, two days out, where are you?” 

Castiel does a quick check on his phone. “Less than that. A day, give or take. I can do some recon while I’m waiting for you.” 

“Don’t.” Gabriel’s voice is stern. “We’ll work it together, same as we always do.” 

Castiel rolls his eyes. It isn’t often that Gabriel lays aside his devil-may-care personality, but when he does, he gets awfully preachy. “Fine. I’ll wait for you to come and hold my hand.” 

“Don’t start. We hunt demons as a pair or we don’t hunt them at all. You know Dad’s rules.” 

Their father laid down a series of rules for hunting, all of them stringent, all of them hammered into his sons’ heads by the time they were old enough for high school. Not that it did the man himself any good; he died on a hunt when Castiel was a senior in high school. 

“Sure. I won’t go after anything. I’ll get there, do a little looking around, and wait for you.”

With that, there’s no more to say, and he hangs up the phone. He looks down at his half-eaten burger and wrinkles his nose. Images of eyeless babies dance through his head, and he finds that his appetite has deserted him. 

“Fucking demons,” he sighs. 

He spends the next day in his truck, eating away the miles until Rawlins. His music is a poor companion, but the thought of spending those hours cooped up with Gabriel sends a thrill of horror down his spine. Gabriel’s companionship is best kept to bars, hunts, and wide-open spaces. The confines of a car drive Castiel’s brother, and therefore anyone else unfortunate enough to share the space with him, to distraction. Castiel supposes, at the end of it, what he wants is a  _ friend,  _ someone to share hunts with, someone to have his back on the bad ones and celebrate the good ones with him. 

He rolls his eyes. There are no friends in this life. There is family, people tied together through bonds so twisted and complex that it would take Hercules cutting through the Gordian knot of obligations to free them. There are partners, people who hunt together for safety, but those are business associations. At the end of the day, they can walk away from each other and never look back. So the ideal person, then, would be someone who  _ could  _ walk away but who  _ wouldn’t.  _

Castiel scoffs, harshly twisting the volume knob on the radio. Noise pours out of his speakers, the scritchy fuzz at the edges warning him from any other hasty decisions. The cacophony serves to clear his mind, chasing away his unruly thoughts. He’s a hunter. He’s never going to have friends or a family beyond Gabriel. He’s going to fight and inevitably die. 

Wishing otherwise won’t help. 

\---

It is, in fact, demons. 

Castiel’s grown to trust his brother’s instincts, at least as far as hunting is concerned, but that doesn’t mean he isn't going to investigate on his own time. He throws on his suit, and the coat that Gabriel says makes him look like a creepy flasher, and heads down to the police station. 

The deputy he deals with is so painfully apathetic, Castiel wishes he could just slam his knuckles into the guy’s face. Yes, the weather patterns are abnormal for this time of year. Yes, there has been an increase in petty crime over the past few days. Yes, there have been a few disappearances, but it’s probably just men leaving their wives, women ditching their boyfriends, teenagers getting frustrated with their parents and deciding to run out for a weekend. Castiel jots down the names of the people who have been reported missing and tries not to scream from frustration. 

When the interview is done, Castiel thanks the deputy for his time and leaves the police station, tugging at the knot of his tie as he walks to his truck. Once outside, he squints into his rearview, rolling his eyes as he recognizes the two men exiting the rusted-out truck behind him.

“Walt and Roy,” he calls from his window, relishing the tiny jump of surprise from the two men. “What brings  _ you _ here?” 

It isn’t that Walt and Roy are bad hunters, but they certainly aren’t  _ good  _ hunters. They’re efficient enough, but they’re also a little too willing to allow collateral damage in their hunts. There’s a mean edge to them, one that has been further honed by Gabriel’s brand of fun. 

“Novak,” one of them sneers. (For the life of him, Castiel can never remember which is Walt and which is Roy.) “Didn’t know there was a convention in town.” 

“Well now, let’s not worry about who got here first, and just be happy that you managed to get here at all.” Castiel leers at the two men, flipping them a lazy, two-fingered salute. “Have fun dealing with the locals.” 

“You know, you’re not shit,” Walt (Castiel feels almost positive it’s Walt) sneers at him. “Either you or your brother.” 

“Well, no, I  _ don’t  _ consider myself shit,” Castiel pretends to ponder, his finger tapping at his chin. “Good luck, gentlemen.” 

He drives out of the parking lot, keeping an eye on Walt and Roy until he takes a turn and they disappear. Having them present might complicate things, but not too much. It will certainly create difficulties with law enforcement, but Castiel is confident enough that he and Gabriel will be able to clear out these demons without too much trouble. Especially since he has a lead on where they’re gathering. 

It was a throwaway line for the deputy but he let on that there have been more noise complaints than usual coming from the graveyard just on the outskirts of town.  _ Kids,  _ the deputy dismissed them, his nose wrinkling in distaste.  _ They go out there, get drunk, and trash the place.  _

Somehow, Castiel thinks there’s more to it than that, which is why, come nightfall, he finds himself lurking in his truck just outside the gates of the graveyard. He whiles away the time reading by the faint light of the streetlamp, though he has trouble keeping any of the words in his brain for longer than a few minutes. Difficult to appreciate your reading material when, just a few yards away, demons are probably waiting. 

He perks up when a flurry of movement bursts from behind some of the headstones. “Uh-oh,” Castiel mutters, squinting into the darkness. He gropes in the passenger seat for his binoculars, peering through them to get a better view. What he sees makes his blood run cold. 

Two men have a slender teenager underneath the arms, dragging her backward. Her shouts are quickly cut off by a hand clapped across her mouth. They continue moving until they take a turn and disappear behind a tree. 

“Fuck,” Castiel curses, hunting hurriedly for his salt and holy water. His phone is decently charged, exorcism already waiting to be used. He would have felt better with the blade, but that resides with Gabriel,  _ because I’m older, you little cretin. _

No doubt Gabriel would curse him, but like hell Castiel is going to sit back while demons murder an innocent. 

He vaults easily over the fence surrounding the graveyard and hits the ground on silent feet. At a dead run, he sets off for where he saw the demons disappear, one hand on his flask of holy water. He keeps his breathing as quiet as he can, aware that demons could be lurking behind any tree or headstone. He follows what tracks he can find — churned earth, broken branches — to deep inside the cemetery. Light flickers from a mausoleum, and bright, jagged laughter falls out of the open doorway. 

Castiel swallows. No matter how many hunts he goes on, there’s always the moment before action, when terror eclipses thought and his heart tries to beat a wild retreat against his ribs. He breathes past it, the same as always, but there will always be the knowledge settling on his shoulders that one day, he’s going to walk into one of these places and not walk back out. 

Today isn’t going to be that day. 

Castiel enters the mausoleum, his phone blasting out the exorcism, and holy water flying from the lip of his flask. There are immediate howls and hisses from the demons at the door, steam flying off their skin as he moves forward. He has no interest in fighting all of them, or even one of them. This is strictly a snatch-and-grab. Get the girl, and then get the hell out. 

Except there’s a problem with the plan. Castiel looks at the opposite end of the mausoleum, his heart going cold in his chest. 

The teenage girl, the captive, stands at the far end, smirking down at him. “You find the place okay?” she asks, a little smirk playing at the edges of her lips. 

Trap. It was a trap and now Castiel is in here, outnumbered by demons, with no real exit plan. How could he have been so  _ stupid,  _ how could he be so  _ idiotic— _

He turns to run, but is immediately seized by his upper arms. The demons drag him backward, moving with such force that the tips of his toes barely skim the earth. Castiel shouts an exorcism as best he can, words of Latin torn out of his mouth, but a hastily made gag shoved into his mouth stops any chance of completing the ritual. His phone is crushed underneath a demon’s boot, and his holy water and salt are quickly taken from him. 

Fear pumps cold and deadly through his veins as he struggles against his captors. The girl, the leader, strolls towards him. There is no hurry in her steps. Why would there be? She has everything she wanted. 

“You hunters are all alike in the end,” she purrs, stroking over his jaw. When Castiel tries to jerk away, her nails dig into his skin until little half-moon pinpricks of blood dot his jaw. “Leap before you look. Idiots, the lot of you. It’s why we’re going to win.” 

Castiel yells into his gag as his shirt is ripped open, revealing painfully vulnerable, bare skin. The demon laughs before she turns around and brings a serrated blade into his field of vision. The point of it rests in the hollow of his collarbone, digging into his skin far enough to draw blood. Castiel fights hard enough to hurt himself, but the demons holding his arms are immovable. 

“Oh, relax, Blue Eyes,” the girl says, before digging the point of her knife into his skin and dragging it down his chest. The gag only manages to muffle some of Castiel’s howls as blood starts to run, hot and sticky, down his chest. “You don’t know it, but you’re about to be the most important person in the world. A thousand years from now, when humans are just the cattle we keep in cages, every demon is going to know your name.” 

She makes another cut in his chest, her forehead furrowed in concentration. Almost as if she were following a pattern. Fear coils around Castiel’s chest. It’s one thing to be tortured and murdered on a demon’s whim, an entirely different one if the demon has a purpose behind her actions. 

The demon smirks down at him. “You’re the key that’s gonna unlock the door,” she breathes, cutting into him again, this time low on his ribs. Castiel glares hatred at her, but she won’t stop until she’s satisfied. “You’re going to bleed and open the gates.” 

Castiel casts his mind through all the gates he knows about. Immediately, he arrives at the worst possible conclusion. From the broad grin splitting the demon’s face, he knows it’s also the  _ only _ possible conclusion.

“Thanks to you, Hell’s going to come to earth. All demons, all the time. Oh, Blue Eyes, they’re never going to forget you.” 

Castiel screams behind his gag, both in pain and denial, as she cuts into his body again and again. Stupid, he was so stupid, and now the world is going to pay the price of his mistake. 

Pain rattles through his body as the demons lean him forward so that his blood drips against the floor. He can hear it, in a hazy, far-off way, each individual drop sounding like a gunshot in his skull. Each one feels like another grain of sand in the hourglass, counting down the seconds of his life. 

With each drop of blood that falls , Castiel feels something stirring underneath the earth. Something hot and vicious, something  _ hungry.  _ Every fiber of Castiel’s being knows to fear it, and he struggles again, though he’s getting weaker by the second. 

A series of pleas drops from his lips onto the uncaring soil. “No, no, no.” The words blend into a useless cacophony of sound, as all around him, the demons start to laugh. Rage and shame boil in him. 

“Not long now.” The demon breathes in deep, like she can almost taste the brimstone in the air. “And we’ll be rewarded beyond all our wildest dreams.” 

Castiel slumps forward. His breaths are turning ragged at the edge, pain caught in his throat with every exhalation. 

When the demons’ hands loosen their grip, he thinks he’s hallucinating. He shifts, carefully, in their grasp. Hope sparks vicious in his heart when their hands don’t immediately tighten around him. There’s no way he’s going to make it out of this alive. But if he’s lucky enough, he might be able to avoid dragging the rest of the world down with him. 

It happens too quickly for his failing brain to truly mark. Castiel twists and falls, slipping free of the demons’ grasp. He evades their attempts to grab him, staggering towards the exit. Impending death gives him a shot of adrenaline that he uses to sprint through the graveyard, tripping over tree roots and headstones alike. 

“Where are you, little hunter?” 

\---

**_Now_ **

“Cas?  _ Cas!”  _

Castiel comes back to himself as he’s staring at...himself. “I thought...it doesn’t make any sense.” He looks to Dean and Gabriel, the two most important people. “If I’m…” He can’t bring himself to say the words, so he just waves his hand at the body, “then how come I’m like this?” He gestures at the rest of himself. 

“Up until about an hour ago, I was going on the assumption you were dead, so it beats the hell out of me.” Dean’s voice is hoarse, but there’s a new light in his eyes when he looks at Castiel, one he’s never seen before. If Castiel were anyone else, he would call it hope, but he’s not that naive. 

He doesn’t like how Dean’s eyes drift from him to his body, like he could just hop back inside it and start moving around again. This isn’t a fairytale. Life doesn’t have happy endings. It occasionally has less bloody ones, which is all they can really hope for. 

“Cas.” Castiel’s attention turns to Gabriel, who’s looking at him like he’s...Well, like he’s seen a ghost. 

Castiel can no longer feel physical pain (like most everything else, that sensation is lost to him), but the agony that twists through his chest is vicious enough to almost remember how it felt. He’s not used to seeing Gabriel like this, undone and vulnerable. His older brother has always been snarky and smarmy, always had a quip ready for deployment, no matter how heart-rending the situation. Castiel used to think it was irritating. Now he realizes how much he relied on that, how much it was a strength. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, giving voice to the regret that has hung over him like a pall ever since he figured out what happened to him. “You told me to wait and I didn’t...I’m sorry—” 

Then it hits him. The main driving force behind his guilt was the knowledge that, with his actions, he condemned his brother to death. But here Gabriel is, looking distinctly alive. “I thought you were dead.” 

“I’m getting that a lot today. I guess it’s nice to be noticed? All I did was drop off the grid; I can’t help what people assume.” 

“Asshole,” Castiel mutters underneath his nonexistent breath. “Well, if you’re not dead, then what are you doing?” 

“Looking after your apparently ungrateful ass,” Gabriel snaps back. “My whole social calendar is shot all to hell.” 

Castiel looks at the bed, and then back to Gabriel, before raising a brow. “Well, at the very least, it looks as though I haven’t been giving you much trouble.” 

“You’d think, but you’d be surprised. You were never this popular while you were alive. Seems that now you’re all comatose, everybody is angling for a piece of your sweet ass.” 

It’s lucky Castiel can’t blush. All he can think about is how much he’d love to allow Dean a chance at his sweet ass. Or how much he’d love a true chance at Dean’s sweet ass. Or any combination thereof. 

Something of his thoughts must show on his face, as he gets two reactions: a curled upper lip from Gabriel, and a heated, considering gaze from Dean. That lasts only for a second before Castiel coughs and looks around the room. “You drew a devil's trap on the ceiling. You've been having demon troubles?” 

“Yeah. There were demons here, at least until I took care of them. You’re a popular guy, Cassie.” 

“Please don’t call me that,” Castiel says, a little automatically. He’s too busy trying to put the pieces together to give his full attention to the argument. 

If demons don’t get what they want, they cut their losses and move on. There are seven billion people in the world. Other than a few very special cases, demons don’t bother to learn their names, much less come back for seconds. It’s not revenge these demons are after; he provides a very lackluster target for a demon’s brand of vengeance. No, it’s something more practical that has drawn them here. 

“The ritual,” Castiel mutters. A thrill of horror tingles through him as the pieces start to connect in his mind. “They didn’t finish it the first time...And if there was a key…” The dominos in his mind are falling so quickly, he can barely keep up with them. 

“Cas?” Dean’s gruff voice interrupts his thoughts. “You want to share with the rest of the class?” 

“I remember.” Castiel’s eyes dart towards Gabriel and Dean alike. “I remember what happened before…” He swallows. “It was a trap. The demons lured me into the cemetery because they were trying to do a ritual.” 

“I’m probably going to regret asking this, but a ritual to do what? I’m guessing it wasn’t for the perfect apple pie recipe?” 

Dean’s attempt at a joke falls painfully flat, but Castiel can’t help but love him for trying. “Unfortunately, no. Though they never said specifically, I think it was a ritual…” He doesn’t need to swallow to clear his throat, but it’s a reflexive action, and one that hasn’t left him even after all these months. “I think they were trying to open the Gates of Hell.” 

Silence follows his words as Dean and Gabriel wrap their heads around the idea. 

“Well. That is...not awesome,” Dean finally says. 

“You don’t do things by halves, do you?” 

Castiel shrugs, shuffling his feet. He certainly didn’t intend for this. “I think that’s why the demons are coming back. I think they’re still trying to do the ritual, and they need  _ me _ to complete it.” 

_ My blood,  _ he doesn’t say, though he feels the phantom pain of each stroke of the knife as vividly as though it were cutting into his chest again. 

“Well, how do we stop it?” Dean demands. Typical Dean, jumping into every situation before he stops to consider the consequences, so rash and reckless. It makes Castiel want to wrap himself around him and protect him from every ill the world could ever think to manifest upon him. 

It’s a ludicrous dream. He can’t even protect himself, much less someone else, but it’s still a fantasy he holds close. 

“You could kill me.” 

Two pairs of furious eyes snap to him. Castiel feels almost as if he’s already burning. He returns their stares with a serenity he doesn’t feel. “If my body is… If I’m already dead, there’s no reason for the demons to come back. They can’t complete their ritual. Problem solved.” 

There’s a long moment of silence, like the calm before the first peal of thunder shakes the sky, then the room erupts in noise. 

_ Are you fucking crazy — You’ve had some bonehead ideas in your day, Cassie, but this takes the fucking cake — If you think we could do that, then you’re even more stupid than you look—You’d better be glad you’re not corporeal, because I really want to beat the shit out of you right now— _

He lets Dean and Gabriel shout themselves hoarse. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the unceasing jump and descent of the heart monitor. It’s doing the work  _ he _ should be doing, breathing for the useless lump his body has become. It’s dead weight at this point, more threat than gift. The smart decision would be to jettison it. Now if only he could make Dean and Gabriel see the same kind of sense he does. 

“So now that we’re agreed, we’re not doing that.” Gabriel is furious, possibly the angriest Castiel’s ever seen him. He’s almost snarling, and his fingers are curled into an impotent fist. “Got any other bright ideas, Casanova?” 

Castiel looks at his brother, because he can bear to meet Gabriel’s eyes. He doesn’t dare look at Dean’s face to see the betrayal and anger across his features. 

“Other than that, I don’t have any suggestions.” Castiel had his own, nuclear option, the guaranteed end to this madness. Without that, he’s useless. Just a spirit, caught outside his body; can’t hop in, can’t really move on, too weak to help hunt demons. “It’s the right—” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Dean says, his voice rough. “If you’re not going to offer anything  _ useful,  _ then shut the fuck up.” Castiel finally dares to look at him. Dean’s face is blank, save for his eyes, which are deep wells of suffering and rage. Guilt churns in Castiel. He was the one to make Dean look that way. 

Dean glares at him, almost like he hopes he can erase the memory of Castiel’s suggestion with nothing more than wishful thinking. “I need to make a call,” he announces, storming abruptly out of the room. Castiel watches him leave and winces as he slams the door behind him. 

He looks at Gabriel. “Are you going to leave too?” 

Gabriel looks up at the ceiling as he rolls his shoulders in an attempt to release some tension. “I mean, I’m not thrilled with you, but I can see where you’re coming from.” He studies Castiel’s body. “I don’t suppose you could just hop over there and jump back inside.” 

“Afraid not.” 

“The doctors said there was no brain function,” Gabriel says abruptly. “That you would never breathe on your own again. They wanted me to…” His face twists, and Castiel guesses what he’s going to say. 

“They wanted you to take me off life support.” Gabriel shoots him a look equal parts agonized and grateful. “Why didn’t you? It’s not like you to be sentimental.” Gabriel sees things for their worth and, when they cease to become useful, discards them. It’s what makes him a good hunter. It’s why Castiel is more frustrated with his brother than with Dean. He thought he had a shot of convincing Gabriel. 

“Over trinkets and places, maybe. Not you. Jesus Christ, Cassie.” Gabriel looks at his body before he turns back to Castiel. A ghastly attempt at a smirk spreads across his face. “Besides, I’ve  _ always _ thought you were braindead.” 

Amazingly, a laugh escapes Castiel. Once the first one leaves, it’s easier for the second and then the third to follow. “You always know exactly what to say.” 

“It’s a gift.” Gabriel’s shoulders finally lose some of their tension as he offers Castiel a rueful smile. “You think after your boyfriend finishes his call, we could get out of here? No offense Cassie, but you’re not really doing much for the decor.” 

“You could have at least shaved me,” Castiel sniffs, looking back at his body for one brief second. It gives him the strangest sense of vertigo to peer down at his own face. “I look like a lumberjack.” 

“So picky,” Gabriel chides, but even he can’t erase the soft tone of his voice or the slightly misty look in his eyes. 

“Besides, I don’t even know if I  _ can  _ leave,” Castiel muses. “I don’t feel connected to the cuff anymore. Before, it was always like a tether: I could move away from it, but I could always feel it tugging at me. I don’t feel that, but I don’t feel connected to…” He jerks his chin at his body.

“Well, in a way that’s a good thing. It would be hellishly awkward to drag your comatose ass around with us if we needed you. The whole Weekend at Cassie’s thing is a little bit harder to pull off than you’d imagine.” 

Dean chooses that moment to come back into the room. He spares one more glare for Castiel, this time including Gabriel in his scorn, apparently for the crime of daring to relax in Castiel’s presence. “I called Bobby,” he tells them, looking somewhere past their shoulders. “He should be here sometime tomorrow afternoon. Hopefully he can figure out a  _ good  _ solution.” The emphasis Dean places on the word ‘good’ leaves no doubt in Castiel’s mind as to what he considers a  _ bad  _ solution. 

“And I look forward to meeting another grumpy, flannel-clad specimen of humanity like yourself,” Gabriel inserts smoothly. “But for now, let’s face it, Cassie’s not the liveliest of company, and I could stand to be in a place that doesn’t reek of piss and disinfectant.” 

Dean glowers, but says nothing, and allows Gabriel to lead them all out of the hospital, after checking that the devil’s traps and wards are properly drawn. In the elevator, Castiel sneaks glances at Dean while Dean stares straight ahead. His jaw is set and hard. Castiel yearns to feel it, smooth his fingertips over the cut of it, coax Dean into smiling, but he can only stand apart, looking and never touching.

“I’ve already got a room in town, and I assume you do as well,” Gabriel says as they walk into the parking lot. Castiel’s unbeating heart kicks in his chest as he sees Gabriel’s familiar sedan, then does a riverdance as he catches sight of the contours of the Impala. “And you two obviously have some stuff you need to get off your chests.” 

Castiel chances another look at Dean’s face and almost says he wants to go with Gabriel. Right now, Dean’s face is nothing but irritation and fury, and Castiel knows the second Gabriel leaves, all of that emotion is going to be unleashed upon him. 

But before he can voice an alternate plan that would spare him that confrontation, Gabriel has already disappeared into his car with his farewell tossed over his shoulder. “When you two are ready, just call me.” Gabriel rattles off the number with a rapid-fire delivery. Only Castiel’s near flawless memory saves him from having to ask Gabriel to repeat himself. Gabriel doesn’t hang around to make sure they got his number. Almost before the last syllable is out of his lips, Gabriel’s driven away, leaving Castiel alone with Dean. 

Finally, he steels his courage and turns to face Dean. Once their eyes meet, however, he finds he has no words. His joy at finding Dean once more wars with his frustration at Dean’s recalcitrance, which wars with his grief at knowing that this situation was never going to last. And above everything else is the fear that the world, that _Dean_ , will be hurt by his stupidity. 

“Don’t,” Dean bites out, wrenching open the Impala’s door. “Not here.” 

The drive back to Dean’s motel is short but intense. Dean keeps his hands firmly on the wheel, exhibiting none of his customary grace when driving. He stays stiff and unyielding until he pulls into the parking lot of the motel. He shuts off the ignition, but instead of getting out, he twists in his seat, turning to face Castiel. 

“Dean, let me—”

“Shut up,” Dean interrupts. 

It’s worse than Castiel thought. He was expecting Dean’s words to be heated and harsh, to scald him with their anger. But instead, Dean’s voice is cold and almost emotionless. 

“I know when you go into the Veil it’s...Well, you’ve told me what it’s like. But you don’t know what it’s like when you disappear. Not knowing when you’ll come back.  _ If  _ you’ll come back. Knowing that every time you go away might be the last and knowing that you might leave anyway.” 

Dean’s face finally breaks, his calm facade splitting into something heartbroken and terrifying. “Cas, you don’t… You’re... _ everything,  _ you know that right? There’s nothing I wouldn’t do—” 

Dean cuts himself off, his teeth digging ruthlessly into his lower lip. Pink spreads across his cheeks, as though he’s embarrassed by what he’s said. Castiel’s chest expands and, for a moment, he remembers what it was like to breathe. 

“You don’t think I don’t feel the same way? There’s  _ nothing  _ I wouldn’t do for you, Dean—” 

“Then why the fuck did you say... _ that?”  _ Dean finally spits. “There’s another way, Cas, there’s always another way. You don’t offer to… You don’t do that. You don’t just give up.” 

“And if it was the only way?” Castiel demands.  _ “God,  _ Dean, it’s not like I  _ want _ to… And besides, we don’t know what would happen. It’s not as though I’m tethered to my body. For all we know, we…take care of it, and then I just continue on as usual.”

“Or we figure out a way to…” Dean looks at him. “Cas, what if we could figure out how to put you back? What if we could…” His hand inches towards Castiel until he’s little more than a breath away. “Cas, there’s nothing I would change about you, but if we could… I want to touch you  _ so badly—” _

_ “Dean,”  _ Castiel breathes. He can’t feel it, but he would swear that his heart shatters. “I want…” He wants it all. He wants to feel the burn of Dean’s stubble against his cheeks, wants to feel the strength of his hands, the heat of his skin. “Of course I want that, I want all of that, all of  _ you,  _ but Dean… If it meant saving the world, if it meant saving  _ Sam—”  _

“Don’t fucking ask me to make that choice,” Dean snaps. His fingers curl, but he doesn’t pull away. “Bobby’s coming, and we’ll find another way. We’ll find another way,” he says, harshly cutting off Castiel’s argument. 

For one agonized second, Castiel meets Dean’s eyes before Dean tears them away. He looks out the window, biting down on his knuckle. “It’s not worth it,” Dean finally says, his words muffled and barely audible. “If I lost you…” 

Castiel doesn’t argue against him. At this point, it will do more harm than good, but not even Dean’s heartfelt proclamations can ease the disquiet in his heart. This decision isn’t going to lead anywhere good. 

And added to that is the growing melancholy spreading through him, the one that says that he might not be entirely dead, but he’s also not entirely alive, and he doesn’t know which side will win out in the end. 

  
  


*~*~*~*~*~


	14. give me hope in the darkness

*~*~*~*~*~

A lingering anger stays with Dean all night. It’s not abated by the sight of Cas, curled up in the opposite bed. He’s flipping through the pages of a book, but Dean can tell that the action is more automatic than interested. Their argument hangs over them, thick and ominous as a stormcloud, and nothing Dean does can lift it. 

He should be thrilled. Cas is back. More than that, there’s a chance, however slim, that he could be fixed. Cas might say it’s impossible, but Dean’s made a living out of the impossible. There’s always a way. 

To be able to  _ touch  _ Cas… To be able to walk across the room, pluck the book out of his fingers and cover his body, to feel Cas touch him back… Dean doesn’t like to think about what exactly he would be willing to sacrifice to be able to have that future. 

The problem arises from knowing that Cas is willing to make sacrifices too; just not for a future where they can be together. 

He tries to put his anger aside, but he can’t. To hear Cas say, so casually, that they should just kill his body, like a body was something as meaningless as a torn jacket, easily thrown away when it was no longer convenient? To hear him shoot down Dean’s desire? That’s a bitter pill Dean can’t quite bring himself to swallow. 

When he’d stepped out of the room, he’d had every intention of phoning Bobby. Bobby knew more about demons than almost any other hunter, except maybe his father, but there was no way in hell he was going to call John for help. No, with his encyclopedic knowledge, Bobby was definitely the best one to call. 

But Bobby wasn’t his first call. 

His fingers dialed the number of the person who had known the majority of Dean’s woes since he was a child. He listened to the phone ring three times before Sam answered. “Hey Dean, what’s up?” Sam sounded cautious, with good reason. It wasn’t as though Dean usually called him with  _ good _ news. 

For a moment, Dean contemplated doing the smart thing, which was to laugh and say,  _ Nothing much, just checking to see if they’ve dropped lately or if I should send you more tampons in your care package.  _ Sam would get pissy and Dean would laugh, and the current balance of their relationship would be maintained. 

Dean did the stupid thing. He opened his mouth and croaked, “Sammy, I need help.” 

“What?” There was the muffled sound of footsteps, and Sam calling a hasty apology to someone over his shoulder. A door closed, and Sam’s voice returned, closer and more concerned. “Dean, what’s going on?”

The whole story poured out of Dean, in a torrent of worry and anger. Cas’ disappearance, his visit to Pamela, finding the hospital in Sinclair, and finding Cas’ body. Talking to Gabriel, discovering the truth about what happened to Cas, and then Cas’ suggestion. 

“He wants to kill himself,” Dean snapped, his fingers clenching around the fragile plastic and glass of the phone. “Or his body, or whatever. He didn’t even _ try _ for anything else—” 

Sam listened to Dean rant himself hoarse. His only reactions were the occasional hum and agreement. When it became clear that Dean was finished, he spoke. 

“Dean, I know you’re not going to like hearing this, but I think Cas’ idea might be the smart choice. It’s the easiest solution to the problem. Plus, it doesn’t sound like Cas is tethered to his body, so it might not hurt him—” 

“Yeah, fuck you. You’re just as bad as him!” 

“I said it was the smart choice. I didn’t say it was the right one.” 

Anger rushed out of Dean like air from a balloon. No matter how far Sam went, no matter what kind of fancy college he went to, or what preppy friends he gained, he would always be Dean’s little brother. Dean clung to the comfort of that knowledge. 

“Are you going to call Dad?” Sam asked.

Dean scoffed. “Yeah, right. Dad  _ hates _ Cas. Plus, he uh...He hasn’t been answering my calls lately.” Sam didn’t say anything, and Dean was grateful for his tact. “I’m going to call Bobby.” 

“I don’t like the idea of you facing this thing alone.” 

“I’m not  _ going _ to be alone. Didn’t you just hear me say that I was getting ready to call Bobby? I’ll tell him to put his cranky ass in the car and get on up to Sinclair, Wyoming. Plus, I’ve got Cas and Cas’ asshole brother with me. We’ll be fine.” 

“All right.” Sam sounded less than convinced. “This sounds like big shit you’re getting yourself into this time. It’s not just your average ghoul or wraith hunt.” 

“Thanks, Sam. You know, I hadn’t realized that, what with all the demons wandering around lately.” 

“I just mean…” Sam sighed. Dean could almost imagine the bitchy little twist of his mouth. “Just be careful, would you?”

“Always.” Dean glanced towards the door. He could hear the low sound of voices within. “Hey, I’ve got to go call Bobby. I’ll keep you posted, all right?” 

“Yeah, sure.” Sam sounded distracted. No doubt his mind was already traveling to assignments and keggers, and all the normal shit college kids thought about. Dean hung up, and then called Bobby. 

Now he’s trying, with limited success, to swallow his resentment and enjoy the happy reunion this night should have been. Castiel looks at him, frowning slightly. 

“Dean, I know you’re still angry.” 

“Gee, do you think?” Dean snaps. He feels even worse when he sees Cas recoil. No matter what he does, he can’t seem to stop himself from fucking up. 

“I just thought—”

“Look, Cas, I don’t want to talk about it anymore, all right?” Dean sits down heavily on the end of the bed, burying his face in his hands. “If we talk about it, we’re just going to fight, and I don’t want to fight with you.” 

_ Not when there’s a chance I might lose you _ remains unsaid, but implicitly understood. 

“I don’t want to fight with you either.” Cas sounds entirely too conciliatory for Dean’s liking, almost like he’s saying goodbye. 

“Then let’s just drop it, all right?” 

Cas is standing just out of arm’s reach. Dean’s thumb itches with the desire to press into the small furrow between Cas’ eyebrows and smooth it out. He swallows down that need as Cas’ voice cracks. “Dean, there’s nothing in the world that I want more than to hold you. To feel your skin against mine. To taste your lips.” 

“Cas, you’re getting a little pornographic there—”

“I just wanted you to know,” Cas continues, like Dean hadn’t interrupted him. “That if matters were different...If  _ I  _ were different, then nothing could keep me from you.” 

“Cas, don’t—” 

“Dean, I found you when I thought my life was over. I was convinced that I was stuck, and the only thing I could do would be to help silently from the sidelines. But you…” Cas’ eyes are dark and pleading as he looks at Dean. “You are the best and brightest person I’ve ever met. You are kind and intelligent, and anyone would be glad to count you amongst their friends.” 

“If you keep this up you’re going to make me blush.” 

“The point that I’m trying to get to,” Cas continues, still somehow patient even in the face of Dean’s impressive stupidity, “is that if I could wish for  _ anything _ , it would be to live a normal life with you.” 

Dean whirls and looks at Cas. He looks so damn earnest with his wide blue eyes and his soft, pouty lips. Dean’s never kissed those lips, and at the rate he’s going, he never will. 

“I just thought you might be angry because you thought I didn’t want you as much as you wanted me. And I wanted to let you know that such a thing couldn’t be farther from the truth.” 

“Goddammit, Cas,” Dean breathes. 

The bed doesn’t dip when Cas joins him. But there’s a disturbance in the air all the same, the shift of molecules making way to accommodate something not wholly of this earth. Dean looks over to the side to find Cas less than an inch away, staring intently at him. 

“Dean, would you let me try something?” Cas asks. “I don’t know if it will work, but I was going to ask you before…” He trails off, his eyes darting to the side for a second. “And I know that now might not be the most appropriate time, but—” 

Dean knows the gist of what Cas is getting at. He’s tried the ‘Last Night on Earth’ speech before, with generally favorable results. He’d be a little insulted that Cas is trying it out on him now, if it weren’t so awfully fitting under the circumstances. 

“Pretty sure I’d trust you with my life at this point.” Shame pricks at Dean, but there’s no reason for it. He’s only confirming what Cas should know already.

“This would be different.” Cas settles onto the end of the bed, neatly folding his feet underneath his thighs. “For us to try this, you would have to let me have control of your hands.” 

Dean feels a cold jolt of panic. “You mean you’d possess me.” 

“Just your hands. I think I’ve figured out a way where that’s the only thing I’ll have control over. Your mind, everything else… That’ll be all you. And if you decide you don’t want it, I’ll let go.” 

Dean still remembers the terror he felt when Cas took control of his body. But that was without warning, when he didn’t know what to expect. He’s already given Cas control of his body, already placed himself in Cas’ hands time and time again, and Cas has never led him astray. 

“Do it.” Cas cocks his head to the side, doubting Dean’s acceptance. Dean grins at him. “We’re going to full-on Swayze this.” 

Cas’ forehead wrinkles at the reference, but he seems to get the general gist. “All right. Give me a second.” He closes his eyes, only to open them a second later. “It’s probably going to feel weird. Don’t fight me.” 

As far as warnings go, it’s fairly sinister, but in for a penny, in for a pound. Dean closes his eyes and tries to keep his breathing light. With one of his senses removed, he’s hyper-aware of everything else — the hum of the pipes, the feeling of his sweats and shirt against his skin, the slight musty smell that all hotels seem to eventually pick up. 

Then he feels a tickle along the back of his hand, almost like a cobweb brushing against his skin. His immediate reaction is to flinch away, but he remembers Cas’ warning and keeps himself still. It becomes harder as the touch grows firmer, like someone stroking their finger along the back of his hand. Then cold floods his skin, so frigid that it takes his breath away. It burns for a brilliant second before fading. 

Dean’s fingers flex. His breath catches in his throat. 

He didn’t move his hands. 

He opens his eyes, calming his immediate panicked reaction. It’s just Cas. Cas wouldn’t hurt him. “Cas?” he calls. 

“I’m here.” Dean looks to the side to meet Cas’ eyes. It’s obvious that the possession of Dean’s hands is taking a toll on his strength: he’s more an idea than a figure, his body misty and transparent. But his voice is still strong. “Are you all right?” 

Dean considers the question for a second. “Yeah,” he answers, surprisingly truthfully. “Yeah, I’m good.” 

A smile breaks out across Cas’ face. “Good. All right.” He seems almost surprised with Dean’s answer, as it takes him a few moments to collect himself. “All right. I’m going to start. If something happens that you don’t like, just tell me to stop, and I will.” Dean waits, but nothing happens. He glances over at Cas, who seems to be struggling with something. 

“Cas, you all right?” A horrible thought rises. “You’ve got the mojo for this, right?” 

“I’m pretty sure I do.” Cas bites at his lower lip. “Do you want salt next to you? Just in case?” 

Any misgivings Dean might have had fade away with that question. To know that Cas cares that much about his comfort levels… “Get on with your laying on of hands,” he orders, flopping back onto the bed.

“Bossy,” Cas reprimands, but so mildly that Dean doesn’t even feel the sting. “Okay. This might take me a minute to figure out—”

Dean’s breath hitches as his right hand twitches and then lifts without his consent. His innate instinct is to fight back and force it back down, but he wills his muscles to relax. His hand lifts up to his face, where his knuckles stroke over his cheek. It’s a little clumsy, almost like he’s trying to touch himself while he’s drunk, but with every second that passes, Cas seems to gain a broader understanding of how to manipulate Dean’s body. 

Dean has control over his shoulders, but it seems as though his influence ends there. It reminds him of a marionette: Cas lifts his hand and, with the rest of his muscles lax, his arm follows suit. 

Dean moans as his left hand comes up to tangle in his hair, pulling softly at the strands. His right hand continues stroking over his cheek, until his fingers brush across his lips. Acting on instinct, Dean opens his mouth and darts his tongue out. Dual moans rise in the room, and Dean snaps his head over to Cas in surprise. 

“Can you—” He bites at his fingers, just to watch a shiver run through Cas’ figure. “Cas, can you  _ feel  _ that?” 

Cas looks at him. His expression is utterly wrecked. “Dean,” he rasps, moaning softly as Dean flicks over the pads of his fingers with his tongue. “Dean, I didn’t think I would— Oh  _ God,  _ Dean, that’s—” 

Dean sucks at his fingers, groaning when his index and middle fingers shove deep into his mouth. Cas fucks his mouth slowly, dragging his fingers in and out, making Dean feel every inch of them. Dean makes it as good for Cas as he can, swirling his tongue around the digits, mapping every whorl of his fingerprints. 

“Oh fuck, Dean, I can  _ feel—”  _ Cas groans. “Your fucking  _ mouth.”  _

His hands grope clumsily at his shirt, tangling in themselves and the fabric as they work to get his shirt off. “Calm down, Cas,” Dean orders, chuckling softly. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

Cas closes his eyes, steadying himself. When his hands move again, they’re sure and steady, gripping the collar of his t-shirt and pulling it over his head in a single, smooth motion. Dean shivers as Cas tosses his shirt to the side. “You’ve got a lot of places to explore,” he murmurs. “Where are you going to go first?” 

Watching Cas is almost as arousing as the feel of his fingers stroking slowly over the cord of muscle in his neck down to his shoulder. He’d never thought of that area as a particularly erogenous zone, but the combination of a touch outside his control and the knowledge that it’s  _ Cas _ behind the action is more than enough to have him moaning softly with every brush of fingers. 

“I never thought I’d be able to feel you like this,” Cas says. His eyes are intense as they fix on Dean, watching the play of Dean’s fingers against the hollow of his collarbone. “God, Dean, you…” Cas drags his hands down Dean’s chest, sighing as he feels Dean’s skin. His pinky brushes against a nipple, and Dean’s hips jolt forward at the electric shock. 

“Do that again,” Dean demands, though his voice is a little too breathy to be taken seriously. 

“Like this?” Cas grins as he thumbs at Dean’s nipples, torturing the taut flesh until it’s straining underneath his touch. Dean groans, tossing his head back as Cas pinches and rolls the buds. His cock presses against his sweatpants, precome darkening the fabric. “You feel so good,” Cas murmurs, stroking soothingly over Dean’s stomach. 

Dean’s left hand returns to his hair, stroking over it before tugging gently at the strands. “Come on, Cas,” he murmurs, lifting his hips in invitation. “Come on, I’m ready for you.” 

He gasps as his fingers twist in his hair. “You’re not calling the shots here,” Cas chides. Then, in clear punishment, Cas palms at his dick, too light and teasing to be fulfilling. Dean groans, thrusting up into the hint of pressure. Before he can find any relief, Cas yanks his hand away. 

“Cas, please.” Dean’s head lolls to the side. “Touch me, baby.” 

Either his tone, or the request, or the endearment works wonders. Cas pushes at the waistband of Dean’s sweats, working them down his hips. With some effort, Dean kicks free of the confining garments. Once he’s bare, he breathes a sigh of relief. 

“Gotta get the lube,” Cas whispers. It’s a comedy of errors, Dean moving his feet while Cas moves his hands, but they manage to rummage through Dean’s duffel until they’re victorious. “And the other thing,” Cas tells him. Even though he hasn’t moved from the bed, he still knows exactly what Dean’s looking at. Dean’s shoulders heat as he stares down at the dildo, nestled innocuously in his bag. “Bring it along with you,” Cas orders. 

Dean walks back towards the bed on shaky legs. His hands put the lube and dildo on the mattress, then run over his chest. “What do you want, Dean?” Cas rasps. “Do you want to be on hands and knees or on your back?” 

Dean ponders. Hands and knees means less strain on his wrist, plus a part of him loves the vulnerability inherent in the position. On the other hand, on his back means that it’s easier for him to see Cas, not to mention give him a show. Decision made, he stretches out on his back across the mattress. His cock slaps wetly at his stomach, leaving behind a smear of slick on his skin. 

Dean’s hands make their way unerringly to the stain, and he moans with realization as Cas runs his fingers through the mess. His mouth is already open, tongue lapping at the pad of his finger. The bitter, salty taste of his own precome floods his mouth, and Dean sucks at his fingers. 

“Fuck, Cas,” he groans, as Castiel drags his fingers out of his mouth and down his lips to his chin. “Come on, please, you’ve got—” 

“I’ll take care of you,” Cas murmurs. His voice is close, so close that Dean shudders with the  _ almost  _ possibility of it. He arches up, convinced for a moment that he can  _ touch,  _ that he can  _ feel— _

Cas swipes Dean’s fingers over his lips. It’s the closest they will get to a kiss. It soothes and inflames in equal measure. Dean tries to stifle his whimper, but Cas hears it. “It’s okay, Dean,” he murmurs, even though he has no way of knowing that for sure. “I’m going to take care of you, I promise.” 

He traces lines down Dean’s chest, pausing to tweak his nipples. Dean’s back arches at the contact, a helpless gasp tumbling from his lips. Before he can either beg for mercy or for more, Cas is running his hands along his hips, following the trail of light blond hair that leads downward. Dean ruts his hips up in obvious invitation, but Cas declines, instead moving his hands to the side to ghost over the crease between Dean’s thigh and groin. 

“Come on, Cas, don’t fucking tease,” Dean groans. For his cheek, he’s rewarded with a sharp pinch delivered to his inner thigh. “Ouch!” he complains, glaring at Cas. He hopes the jump of interest his cock gave at the contact went unnoticed, but it’s a futile hope, judging from the sheer heat billowing off of Cas. 

“Are you going to be good?” Cas asks mildly, tracing infuriating little lines from Dean’s groin to his hips and then back again. 

Dean could fight against telling Cas what he wants to hear, but what’s the point? It’ll make both of them happy, and it’s not like it’s not the truth. “I’ll be good for you,” he moans, tipping his head back. “Fuck, Cas, I’ll be so good—”

“I know you will,” Cas whispers, and finally,  _ finally,  _ rewards him with a firm touch at the base of his cock. 

They both moan at the contact. While he’s jerked it plenty of times, Dean’s never taken the opportunity to really think about his cock, other than how it can be manipulated to best give him and his partner pleasure. He thinks about it now — the slick foreskin drawing back to reveal the head, the texture of silk over steel, the faint pulse of his heart held just underneath his skin. The jump and throb of it, the blurts of precome jumping from his slit to ease his way — every part of him screams  _ life,  _ and it’s manipulated by Cas. 

“God, Dean,” Cas groans. It looks as though Dean isn’t the only desperate one — he can tell Cas doesn’t mean to, but he can’t stop himself from wrapping Dean’s fist around his cock and stroking several times. 

“Fuck, yeah, that’s it Cas, that’s it—” Dean chants, pleasure lighting through his body. 

He whines in disappointment as Cas removes his hand, but truthfully, it wasn’t anything he wasn’t expecting. It would be much too easy for Cas to simply jack him off, and, if he were being honest, a little anticlimactic. He’s wanted so badly, for so long, to feel Cas’ hands on him, in any form, that he wants to feel them… everywhere. 

Cas’ mind seems to be headed in the same direction, as he murmurs, “Don’t worry, Dean, I’ll give you what you want. I want to feel every part of you. I want to feel you squeezing around me, want to feel you come all over my hand. I’m going to take such good care of you.” 

Cas’ words worm deep into Dean’s heart and he shudders from the overload of emotion and sensation they bring. “Cas, I can’t—” he chokes, turning his face into the pillow. “Please—” 

“It’s okay, Dean. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Cas brings a hand up to stroke at the side of Dean’s face, and he can’t help but tilt his head into the touch. “Relax for me, all right?” Dean nods mindlessly before he takes a deep breath in and releases it slowly. The tension bleeds out of his body, right around the time his fingers close around the bottle of lube. His thumb flicks the lid open. Dean shivers at the implications and shivers more as cold lube sloshes over the fingers of his right hand. 

Cas rubs his fingers together, warming the liquid, before he strokes over Dean’s cock. The touch is teasing and fleeting. Next, he traces over Dean’s balls, rolling them gently in his palm. A strangled noise catches in Dean’s throat as a sharp sensation races through his body, almost too intense to be pleasurable. 

Then, a single finger rubs at his hole, smearing slick around the outside. Dean automatically tenses, his body working against him. “Relax,” Cas tells him, his voice low and soothing. His fingertip puts pressure against Dean’s hole without entering him, massaging the muscle. Finally, the anticipation proves greater than Dean’s nerves, and he sighs as Cas pushes the tip of his index finger into him. 

_ “Fuck,”  _ Cas groans. The word is deep and harsh, almost as though it’s been ripped out of his chest.  _ “Dean.”  _

Dean rolls his hips, forcing the finger in to the furthest knuckle. Twin groans echo around the motel room. “Fuck, Cas,” Dean pants. It’s just one finger, but it’s  _ Cas,  _ and that makes all the difference. “Come on,” Dean urges, pushing back. Cas takes the hint and starts fucking him shallowly. The drag against his sensitive inner walls is almost  _ too  _ good, and Dean closes his eyes. 

“Another, please,” he begs, after a few minutes. It’s good, but it’s not  _ enough.  _ He needs  _ more,  _ needs the burn of two fingers pushing into his body. It’s probably too soon; a dull ache glows through him, but he can’t possibly care about that. 

“You’re so good for me,” Cas tells him. His voice is low and reverent as he thrusts his fingers into Dean. “So good, Dean.” 

Dean cants his hips backward into his fingers. His other hand plucks at his nipples, sparking more pleasure that races through his body. “Cas, oh fuck, you feel so good. So fucking good, god, I want you so much.” 

Cas scissors his fingers, stretching him, before he pushes in deep. He crooks his fingers, searching, before he finds what he was looking for. Dean’s back arches, and a guttural cry leaves his lips as Cas presses on his prostate. His cock leaps against his stomach, precome beading steadily at the tip. 

“You look so good there, on my fingers,” Cas muses. He presses mercilessly on Dean’s prostate, until Dean is a writhing mess, clutching the blankets in his free hand in a desperate bid not to come right then and there. “Can you take another?” 

Dean jerks his head in a nod, groaning as Cas withdraws his hand to add more lube. By now, he’s sloppy with it, but he doesn’t care, not when Cas pushes back within him with three fingers. “You could come here, on my fingers,” Cas tells him. 

“No!” Dean cries, clenching down. “I want—” What he  _ wants  _ is for Cas to cover him, bend him in half, devour him with lips and hands, push into him, and fuck him into oblivion. 

“I know what you want.” For a second, melancholy takes over Cas’ voice, but then it disappears. “Don’t worry, good boy, you’ll get it.” 

He thrusts three fingers into Dean, concentrating more on stretching him and slicking him up than pleasure, though he does run his thumb over Dean’s rim where it’s stretched taut. When he withdraws his fingers, Dean sobs at the empty feeling. 

“I know, I know,” Cas soothes. “Are you ready?” 

Dean blinks stupidly at the question, not understanding the meaning. At least he doesn’t until Cas brings the dildo into view. 

Dean gulps. There’s no reason to. He picked it out, purchasing it from a seedy-looking guy who leered at him and made him feel about thirty different kinds of gross. It’s nothing outrageous; it’s not like he went on Bad Dragon and picked out the horse dick dildo. He’s felt the girth slide into him and open him up. But it’s  _ Cas  _ holding the dildo this time, which makes all the difference. 

“Feel how thick it is?” Cas murmurs. He slicks the dildo up in slow motions, wrapping Dean’s fingers around the girth. Dean’s almost delirious with the need to come, to  _ feel.  _ “That’s going to split you apart. You’re going to come on this, screaming my name.” 

“Yes, yes, please, fuck, yes,” Dean moans. He hitches his hips up, spreading his legs to a truly obscene angle. Like this, he’s on display for Cas. Instead of filling him with shame, the thought fills him with heat and need. “Come on, Cas, fuck me, please, please fuck me—” 

“I will, sweet boy,” Cas murmurs. “I’ll take care of my good boy, just watch me.” 

Blunt pressure pushes at his hole for a moment before it retreats. The procedure repeats itself two more times before Dean’s hips are pushing down, seeking more. He’s babbling, tossing his head back and forth, begging Cas for  _ more, please more— _

The head of the dildo slides into him, his entrance burning from the stretch. Dean keens, a ragged gasp leaving him. “Oh god, yes, please,” he pants, bearing down to take more. 

“Fuck, Dean, you look so fucking good, you’re taking it so well,” Cas moans. “So good for me, my good boy, my good, sweet boy, god, I love you so fucking much, look at you—” 

The words hit Dean, but he’s in such a haze, he doesn’t understand them at first. When the meaning of them finally penetrates the fog around his mind, he cries out. “Fuck, Cas, I need more, need you, love you, I love you, please, more--” 

Cas drags the dildo in and out of him several times, allowing him to get used to the girth and burn. Dean cants his hips backward, taking more and more inside. He’s so  _ empty;  _ he needs more. 

“That’s it, take it,” Cas whispers. “Take it all, you look so fucking good like that, you take it so good—” 

Dean keens. Cas is thrusting the dildo in and out of him at a relentless pace, lighting his nerves up. He’s burning on the inside, but it’s not enough. 

“Please, Cas, please touch me, please, I need to come, need you to touch me, please,” he begs, shameless. 

Cas twists his wrist, changing the angle of the toy. Dean cries out as it thrusts into him again. Now, with every thrust, it pushes against his prostate, setting him ablaze with pleasure. He stares sightlessly towards the sky, begging for more, babbling praise, listening to Cas’ filthy compliments as they pour out of his mouth. 

“Please, Cas, please.” His head lolls to the side as his chest heaves with his breaths. “Please touch me.” 

“You’re so good,” Cas whispers. “Of course, sweet boy.” 

Dean sobs when Cas wraps his fingers around his cock. He doesn’t know whether to thrust up into the slick tunnel of his fist or down onto the toy impaling him. Both are wondrous. 

“Cas,” Dean gasps, Cas’ hand working over him in a flurry of motion. “Cas, I’m going to come, Cas, please—” 

“Yes, good boy, come for me.” 

Dean’s falling apart, and those words are the chisel to help him on his way. Cas’ thumb flicks over the head of his cock, and Dean comes, back arching as his ass clamps down on the toy. He’s groaning, he’s sobbing, he’s calling out for Cas, he can’t, he  _ can’t— _

He doesn’t realize he’s spoken the last words aloud until he hears Cas’ voice shushing him through the aftershocks, praising him. He winces as Cas pulls the toy out of him, tossing it aside. 

“You did so good for me, so good, you’re so good, oh fuck, Dean, love you so much, I wish you could see what I see, wish you knew you fucking gorgeous you were—” 

Dean hums happily, floating on a haze. Cas’ words wrap around him, even as Cas wipes his hands clean on the blanket. Fingers trace over his jaw, down his neck, over his shoulders and chest. Cas touches him everywhere, firm and grounding, and Dean sighs into the comfort the touch provides. 

“You’re so good. Oh, Dean, you’re so wonderful. Love you.” 

Dean blinks. It’s one thing for the words to slip out in the heat of the moment, but this is the afterglow. His heart rate is slowing down, and the sweat and come are drying on his skin. But there’s such weight and sincerity behind Cas’ words that he can’t help but believe them.

“I...you know. You too,” he mumbles, tongue-tied now without an orgasm spurring him on. 

“Elegant,” Cas teases, but rubs a knuckle against Dean’s cheek to soften any blow he might have felt. 

A series of happy murmurs leaves Dean’s lips as Cas strokes over his hair and cheeks. He allows himself to float on the sensation, his brain curiously detached from the rest of his body as he drifts on endorphins. He doesn’t even realize that Cas has managed to wipe his body clean with his boxers until he registers his hands tossing them off to the side. 

“Take such good care of me,” Dean slurs. He can feel sleep tugging insistently at him. His eyelids are heavy, and small chills chase themselves across his skin. He reaches for his blanket, and a small jolt hits him when he realizes that his hands are under his control once more. 

“Cas?” he asks, worry filtering into his high. 

“I’m here, Dean,” Cas answers. He sounds small and exhausted, but pleasure still threads through his voice. “Rest now.” 

Dean should probably wait and talk to him. He should probably see why Cas sounds so very melancholy and defeated. But exhaustion weighs down each and every one of his limbs, and he can’t fight against it any longer. 

  
  


\---

Whatever was bothering Cas, he doesn’t mention it in the morning. He does remind Dean to put away the lube and clean the dildo. Dean’s face flames at the thought of what Gabriel or, god forbid, Bobby, would say if they saw it, and he hastily runs scorching-hot water over the silicone toy before tucking it safely away in his bag. 

Eventually, he calls Gabriel, who answers on the third ring. “Ah, here to work after a night of wedded bliss?” he asks, sounding entirely too cheerful for someone whose little brother is currently braindead in the hospital. Cas rolls his eyes and leans forward to speak into the phone. 

“Dean needs breakfast. Meet us at the diner.” 

There’s something heavy in Cas’ eyes as he watches Dean get ready, but Dean doesn’t know how to broach the topic with him. The one time he tries, he’s brushed off so gently and smoothly that he doesn’t realize he’s been redirected until much later. 

He doesn’t make another attempt until they’re pulling into the parking lot of the diner. 

“Cas?” he asks, shutting the Impala off. He swallows, and clenches his fingers against his knees. “Are you…” The words refuse to come, and humiliation floods at his cheeks. Fuck, he remembers the days when he wasn’t a sixteen-year-old girl.

“Are you upset about last night?” he finally asks, the words coming out small and defeated. He dares to look up, and finds Cas staring back at him in wide-eyed shock. 

“No,” Cas says, not an ounce of doubt in his voice. “How could you… Dean, what’s wrong?” 

His voice is thick and tastes like bile. He can’t help but despise himself. He’s so fucking pathetic. Cas shouldn’t have to hold his hand through the morning after; he shouldn’t need Cas to whisper sweet nothings to him. 

“Dean, look at me.” Cas’ voice brooks no opposition, and Dean lifts his eyes. Whatever he was afraid of finding in Cas’ expression, it’s not there. The only thing he sees is an infinite amount of compassion and understanding. 

“While there are things that I regret, last night isn’t one of them. I loved everything we did last night. To me, Dean, you are…” Cas ducks his head, but then forces himself to look at Dean. “You are the most important person to me. I meant it when I said I loved you.” 

It’s Dean’s turn to duck his head. A warmth unrelated to embarrassment rushes through him. It feels like jumping into a comfortable bed; it feels like the first bite of apple pie when it’s almost but not quite hot enough to burn. “Shit, Cas,” he mumbles. “You can’t say that before a man has his breakfast.” 

Cas’ smile is soft, yet still sad around the edges, almost like he’s looking through a photo album of memories he’ll never get to experience again. “My apologies,” he says drily. “I’ll try to save my heartfelt confessions until after you’ve had your bacon and eggs.” 

“Knew there was a reason I loved you.” Dean blinks at him. He’s surprised; not so much by the words, as by how easy it was to say them. 

Cas tilts his head. He stills, but the sadness clings to his eyes. 

\---

Gabriel enlightens them on his new information (not much), while he demolishes a pile of pancakes almost big enough to obscure him from the rest of the table. Dean’s a fan of sweet things, but the amount of syrup, chocolate, and whipped cream on Gabriel’s food is enough to turn even his stomach. 

“Dude, how do you have any of your teeth?” he asks, when Gabriel swipes his thumb across his empty plate to get at the last smear of syrup.

“Novaks have hella good genes,” Gabriel mumbles around the digit shoved in his mouth. “But you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” It’s disconcerting to be leered at by a man sticking his own thumb in his mouth. Dean’s stomach twists again. 

After breakfast, they retire to Gabriel’s room. Gabriel apparently has more expensive tastes than Dean and chooses to stay in hotels that don’t vaguely smell of piss and cigarettes. The duvet on his bed has probably been washed sometime in the past decade. The carpet doesn’t have suspicious stains, and the shower looks like a place where Dean would actually step barefoot. Must be nice to live the high life. 

They spend the first part of the morning researching. Dean’s discontent grows whenever he looks at Castiel. Instead of his normal, wide-eyed focus, Cas flicks the pages of his book with almost sullen energy. Whenever Gabriel taunts him, Cas responds in a way that feels more rote than natural. Judging from Gabriel’s growing frown, he’s not happy about it either. 

Bobby’s arrival just after midday serves to break the growing tension. There’s a sharp rap on the door, and when Dean opens it, the surly expression on Bobby’s face matches the sound. “Well?” Bobby asks, while Dean stands there stupidly for a few seconds, staring at him. “You gonna invite me in or leave me at the door like a bad date? I had to bribe Rufus to watch the phones for a few days, so you’d better make this worth my while.” 

It comes as a surprise to both of them when Dean lunges forward, wrapping Bobby in a tight embrace. He breathes in the stale-whiskey-and-motor-oil smell of Bobby and feels a coil of tension in his gut finally release when Bobby’s arms close tight around him. “It’s okay, boy. I’m here.” Bobby’s gruff voice is soft enough that Gabriel and Cas won’t hear him; thank god for small mercies. 

Dean would rather die than admit to having glassy eyes when he parts from Bobby, but he spends a quick second dabbing at them while Bobby fills the time by bitching about how he’s going to need someone to help carry in books from his car. “You think I was going to let a snot-nosed bellboy carry them up? Those books are older than his granddaddy!” 

Everything is still shit. Dean has no idea how three hunters and one ghost are going to manage to subdue a whole pack of demons. He doesn’t know how to erase that melancholy from Cas’ face, or how to make Cas stop looking at him like he’s pondering all the ways to say goodbye. He doesn’t even know how to kill a demon. But Bobby’s here, and that releases a load off his shoulders. 

Somehow, Bobby manages to either intimidate or coerce Gabriel into getting the boxes from his car. He takes the time to look at Cas. “So you’re Castiel, huh?” Dean flicks his eyes back and forth between two of the most important people in his life, unsure of where this is going. Bobby’s expression is hidden beneath the brim of his trucker hat, and Cas is infuriatingly difficult to read as usual. 

“And you’re Bobby Singer.” Castiel inclines his head. “I’ve heard about you, but I’ve never had the pleasure. Dean speaks very highly of you.” Something in Cas’ face softens. “Though he’s never said so, I’d imagine that you’re the person I have to thank for keeping him alive.” 

“More trouble than it’s worth, keeping this idjit up and running. Anyway, I’d shake your hand, but, you know.” Dean recognizes the signs of Bobby covering genuine emotion with surliness, and his heart expands at seeing these two interact. 

Once Gabriel returns, huffing and puffing, with the boxes, they settle back down. With the addition of Bobby, conversation returns, though it’s mostly shoptalk. It still beats the tense atmosphere of earlier. 

They work through dinner, ordering cheap Chinese takeout that has Bobby complaining and Cas wrinkling his nose. ( _ I don’t know what you’re looking so pissy about,  _ Dean complains, stuffing his face with General Tso’s chicken,  _ it’s not like you’re going to have to eat anything.)  _ It becomes obvious within ten minutes that Bobby would like nothing more than to throw Gabriel out through the window, but Gabriel saves himself by making an astute observation. It doesn’t stop Bobby from leveling glares at Gabriel whenever the other hunter opens his mouth. For his part, Castiel seems uninterested in saving his brother from impending doom. In fact, he looks rather interested to see Bobby’s retribution. 

Their petty sniping is laid aside the second a knock raps on the door. All four of them sit upright, poised and ready for action. “Maybe the driver just wanted a bigger tip,” Gabriel suggests. His tone is light, but Dean catches the flash of silver that means he’s brought out his weird-ass knife. 

“Yeah, and maybe someone ordered a stripper-gram,” Bobby suggests. His hand falls on the sawed off shotgun that’s never far from his grasp. 

Dean’s own Colt gives him a sense of security as he walks towards the door. He wraps his fingers around the knob as he flicks the safety off the gun. He takes in a deep breath, and then flings the door open. The gun rises, pointing straight at the face of—

Sam stares at him, a little surprised, before he rolls his eyes. He looks a bit rumpled, like he maybe hasn’t changed clothes or showered in the past two days. There are dark circles underneath his eyes, and his hair’s gotten even longer in the few months since Dean last saw him. He shrugs his shoulders and flicks the hair out of his eyes. 

“Hey, jerk.” 

~*~*~*~*~*~*


	15. you saw my pain

~*~*~*~*~*~*

For a good long minute, all Dean can do is gape uselessly. Sam? Here? 

“You…” he says, his mouth working pointlessly as his brain tosses out dozens of opening lines. “You have exams coming up soon!” 

Not his best.

“Seriously?” Sam’s face twists in Bitchface Number Four. “That’s what you come up with?”

“No, I mean, I’m happy to see you, but…” Dean’s brain, once so reliable, refuses to work. “I don’t… I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled to see you, but why are you here?”

Sam tucks his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and ducks his shoulders. It’s what he does whenever he feels guilty about something: tries to make himself smaller to escape any notice. It’s what he used to do whenever Dad came into the room stinking of alcohol and violence, and something in Dean twists to see the gesture coming from his all-grown-up baby brother. 

“These past months have been… I missed you, Dean,” he says, looking at him through earnest puppy eyes. “I said some shit I shouldn’t have when I went to Stanford, and I thought...I thought you didn't want anything to do with me. And then we started talking, and I remembered…” Sam looks at him, and suddenly he’s not the giant who stormed out of the house they were squatting in, screaming obscenities and insults. He’s the scared little five-year-old who was convinced every howl of wind outside was a monster three seconds away from breaking down the door. 

“You were my family. For years, you were the only person I had. You gave up so much for me — don’t argue with me, because I know you did — and you never asked for anything. And now...I’m here.” Sam smiles, hopeful and small. “You’re my brother, and I’m here to help you. I used to be pretty good at this, remember?”

Dean lunges forward at the same time Sam does. Their chests collide, and the embrace is just short of violent, arms squeezing the breath out of each other, hands slapping at backs hard enough to sting. Tears prickle at the back of Dean’s eyes as he bites back a sob.

There’s so much more buried underneath the surface; complicated ties of family and loyalty and duty, twisted in a tangled knot they’ll never unravel. Dean knows part of Sam still believes every word he said that awful night he left, the same as Sam knows a part of Dean will always resent him for walking out on his family. But Sam is  _ here.  _ At one of Dean’s worst moments, his family came for him. 

A tear may run out of his eye to fall into Sam’s hoodie. Sam is man enough not to mention it. 

“Dean? Are you okay?” Cas’ concerned voice tells Dean that he’s taken too long. “Is there a problem— Oh.” Dean can practically hear the gears whirring in Cas’ head, but he gives no indication of the impressive mental gymnastics that must be happening, as he says, “Hello, Sam.” 

Sam’s gears are also turning. His eyes flick to Dean and then back to Cas. “Castiel,” he says, his voice giving no indication as to his thoughts. Which is understandable; some of the stuff Dean has told him about Cas is less than flattering, but Dean still feels a small twinge of regret in his chest. He wanted Sam and Cas to get along. 

Cas finally rolls his eyes. “Since Dean has apparently forgotten to do so, I guess it’s my job to invite you in. Please. Enter our oasis of luxury.” 

Sam’s face finally breaks into the smile Dean knows so well. “Thanks, Cas,” he says, and just like that, he and Cas are friends. Cas even gives Sam a cheeky smile in return as he moves to the side to allow him into the room. 

Bobby’s standing up at the table. His hand hasn’t left the shotgun, but as soon as Sam walks in, he steps forward. “Sam?” he asks, disbelief clear in his voice. Sam has just enough time to walk forward, arms opening in preparation for an embrace, and then he’s hit in the face with a flick of holy water from Bobby’s flask. 

Sam has all the indignation of a doused cat as he spits water. “Seriously?” he demands, narrowing his eyes at Bobby. 

Bobby shrugs. “We’ve got demons out and about, and you can never be too careful.” 

Meanwhile, Gabriel has other concerns. “Dean-o, where’d you find the giant?”

“No idea,” Dean snarks, settling in at the foot of the bed since there’s not enough seats at the table. “He was left on the porch one morning with a note that said  _ Please have pity, he’s ugly.”  _ Not even Sam’s quick punch can stop his laughter. 

“It’s good to see you,” Bobby says to Sam, his voice hoarser than usual. The moment lasts just long enough for Sam to get a little sniffly, then Bobby pushes a stack of books into his arms. “Now, use those smarty-pants brains of yours and get to work. I assume your brother let you know what’s been happening?”

“I got the main idea,” Sam says, glancing at Dean. “But you could fill me in on some of the details.” 

As Bobby explains, Dean scoots up the bed, taking a particular delight in putting his boots on the bedspread. After a moment, Cas comes to join him. 

“Are you all right?” he asks quietly. “You’ve had a lot of shocks in the past few days.”

_ Yeah, and whose fault was that?  _ Dean thinks uncharitably, but he doesn’t loose his ire on Cas. It’s been a hell of a week, and it’s only Tuesday. Right now, he wants the stability Cas can provide him. 

“I didn’t think I’d ever see Sam hunting again,” he finally confesses. “When he left… Shit, it was bad.” He slants his eyes at Cas. “You know.” 

Cas does know. In a fit of misery and nostalgia, Dean unloaded the Winchester family trauma on Cas one night, aided by his good friend Jack Daniels. 

“I do.” Cas’ mouth lifts up in a smile so forlorn, Dean thinks his heart might shatter from the sight of it. “He came because he’s worried about you. He came because he loves you.” 

There’s something Cas isn’t telling him, and it’s the same thing that’s lurking behind his eyes and in the miserable twist of his lips. Dean should demand to know what it is, but he doesn’t want to fight. 

What he wants is to rewind to weeks ago, when he and Cas had nothing more important on their minds than how Cas could orchestrate a game of darts because Dean was running low on funds. He wants to curl up on this mattress that doesn’t have a spring determined to poke out his vertebrae. He wants to stare into Cas’ eyes until he falls asleep. 

But he can’t have that. So instead, he picks up the nearest book and flips it open, looking for an exit from this impossible problem. 

\---

Sam’s arrival adds another mind to their research, and soon enough, they get results. Dean is poorly suppressing his yawns and Gabriel is almost asleep on his book when Sam snaps his fingers. 

“So get this,” Sam says, speaking over Gabriel’s confused moans. “I’ve got a reference here to a ritual meant to open the gates. The writing’s kind of vague in reference to what gates, but how many gates are there, really?” 

“Well, you have the Gates of Heaven and the Gates of Hell,” Gabriel mutters, picking crud out of his eyes. “And maybe Purgatory, although the word’s still out on that one.” 

He looks up, only then realizing that Sam and Bobby are both looking at him as though he’s sprouted antlers. “So not the time for this, but you’re going to tell us how you know about that,” Sam says fervently. “Anyway, typical flowery prose, and the Latin is weird, but the gist is that the ritual needs the right celestial conditions.” 

“What day was it when those demons tried to perform the ritual?” Bobby asks. 

“Fourth of February,” Cas answers, his forehead creasing. Bobby pulls some papers close to him and checks a calendar. Whatever he finds makes him curse, softly and viciously. 

“Ah, these rituals are all the same damn thing,” he explains, once he’s regained control of himself. “Overdramatic little bastards. Has to be done on the full moon.” He rolls his eyes. “Guess when the next full moon is?” 

They offer Bobby nothing, proving their idiocy. “It’s tomorrow, idjits. Which means we’ve got a little less than twenty-four hours to get ready for whatever’s coming down the pipe.” 

“Awesome,” Gabriel says after a few moments. 

\---

They split for a few hours of sleep. Sam and Bobby take a room in Gabriel’s hotel. Sam, apparently flush from his work-study tutoring gig, has enough to buy a double. Dean and Cas head back to their roach motel. The ride over is quiet. Cas is deep in his thoughts, and Dean finds himself circling the same three worries. 

How to keep Cas safe. How to keep Sam safe. How to get Cas back. 

If he could find an answer to any of those three problems, he might be able to sleep. As it is, he spends long minutes tossing and turning on the mattress. If Cas needed sleep, he’d probably get pissed at Dean. All Cas does is stare at him, even as Dean huffs and rolls onto his back, like he’s trying to memorize every imperfection of his face. 

“Are you going to tell me what you're thinking about?” Dean finally asks. He closes his eyes to hear the sound of the highway off in the distance. 

“Yes,” Cas answers. “As soon as I’ve finished working it out for myself, I promise, you’ll be the first to know.” 

It’s not the most comforting of declarations, but it’s enough to allow Dean to slip into a troubled sleep.

\---

Overnight, Bobby’s managed to come up with a plan. It’s too bad that it’s a shitty plan, and worse that Cas actually supports it.

“Like hell we’re doing that,” Dean spits, pacing the length of Gabriel’s hotel room. “Think of something else.” 

“Don’t you think I would if I could? In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re running a little short on time!” 

“We are not,” Gabriel begins, his light voice a little too airy to be trusted, “dangling my baby brother as a piece of juicy bait in front of the demons who want to slice him open like a stuck pig!” 

Gabriel’s imagery has room for improvement, but his main point is crystal clear. For once, Dean finds himself in complete agreement with Gabriel. Now, if only he could get Cas on board. 

“It’s the best plan we have,” Cas says. Dean glares at him. Cas is starting to sound like a broken record. This is at least the third time Dean has heard some variation of that phrase, which would be awful even if it didn’t sound like an accusation.  _ Failure,  _ a voice that sounds startingly like his father’s whispers,  _ too stupid to come up with anything better, and now Cas is going to die.  _

“Look, if we move Cas, then all we’re doing is playing keepaway, and next month we have this same problem. Not to mention what else could happen in a month. No. We’re here, we’re ready. Let’s end this now.” Even Bobby’s hat seems to glare, and no one speaks up to contradict him. “Now, I managed to work something up that should close those gates for good. After we finish with the demons, that’ll be our next stop. Send them back to Hell, slam the gates closed and throw away the key, and then we’re on to the next case. Now, exactly what part of that are you having a problem with?” Bobby doesn’t often put his foot down, but when he does, it’s a sight to see. “Gabriel has his demon-killing doohickey, so there’s that, and Sam’s pretty certain he can wire a hospital-wide exorcism.” 

Dean scoffs. “Oh. He’s  _ pretty  _ sure. That’s awesome. Good to know that we’re basing everyone’s lives on  _ pretty sure.”  _

Unable to take the four pairs of eyes on him, Dean storms out of the hotel room. He stalks down the hallway, his gaze focused on the strange, abstract pattern of the carpet. He just wants to get away from that room, from the reminders that he wasn’t good enough to save Cas, from the feeling of slow strangulation, from the certainty that  _ something  _ is going to happen tonight. 

Cas never makes any sound when he walks. Dean hasn’t considered the physics of it, but he supposes that Cas doesn’t exactly walk. Maybe he glides? Whatever he does, it’s not important. What’s important is that minutes after Dean does his best impersonation of an enraged toddler, Cas comes after him. 

Dean waits for him at the end of the hall, underneath the air conditioning vents. The faint breeze ruffles his hair. Cas’ remains stationary. 

“Dean. This is a good plan. If we can lure the demons into the hospital, we can exorcise the majority of them before they ever become a threat. Gabriel has the blade, and you will both be right there with me.” 

“You know, one day you’re going to tell me how Gabriel got ahold of a blade that can kill demons,” Dean mumbles, for lack of a good argument. 

The problem is that the plan _ is  _ solid. If it were anyone else other than Cas in the role of bait, Dean wouldn’t blink an eye. It’s a fact that has been pointed out to him several times, in varying degrees of patience, but it doesn’t change his mind. This is a bad fucking plan, and something’s going to go wrong. Something  _ always _ goes wrong. 

“Gabriel has a talent for finding useful things,” Cas murmurs. “And it was a family heirloom, so I guess you’ll have to ask my ancestors how they got it.” 

Dean snorts softly. He’s still staring determinedly at the carpet, but he catches the faint flick of Cas’ hand, where it looks as though Cas wants to reach out, but manages to stop himself at the last moment. 

In the shitstorm that is his life, that gesture is a drop in the bucket. He’s been subjected to dozens of worse tortures than that, including actual torture. But something about the fact that he’s not even allowed this simplest of comforts, a touch from the man he loves, twists at Dean’s heart. It makes him want to throw back his head and howl in misery. 

“We just need to get through this,” Castiel tells him. His voice is so soft that it forces Dean to look at him. “Just get through this night, close the gates, and then…” Cas’ voice breaks then, his eyes turning dark and shadowed. “Then we can try and figure out what we can do…” His fingers twitch at his side before they curl into a fist. “I want to touch you so badly,” Cas confesses. “I see you hurting, and I want to comfort you. I want to taste you. I want to feel the heat of your skin.”

“We’ll figure out how to fix you,” Dean says, even though that’s not a thing he can promise. “Whatever it takes. I don’t care if we have to kidnap a whole coven of witches to get it done. Cas, we’re going to make this work.” 

“Then we need to get through tonight.” Dean has the sneaking suspicion he’s being manipulated, but he’s not sure how he would even begin to fight against it. “Come back so we can start planning.”

There’s so much he wants to say, but he’s run out of time to say it. Dean clamps his jaw shut and follows Cas back to the hotel room.

  
  


\---

Getting a hospital evacuated is an easier job than most people would think. All it involves is a credible threat to the building, followed by spoofing the response call. Dean listens as Bobby tells the response team to  _ ‘Get everybody out of there, you idjits!’  _

Without the burden of civilian lives, they’re freed to draw devil's traps around the windows and doors of the hospital. The front entrance gets a salt line, but no warding. The idea, Sam explains, while he spray-paints a trap across the floor of the lobby, is to funnel all of the demons in through a single entry point. That way, they can be contained in the singular trap while he seizes control of the PA system in the hospital to do a mass exorcism. Send all of the demons back to Hell, and the problem takes care of itself. Dean’s not certain how long it takes a demon to crawl out of Hell, but he knows that the experience is not an easy one. 

“So Bobby and I will set up there.” Sam points to indicate the landing of the stairs leading to the second floor. “We’ll have the sawed-offs and holy water, so we’ll be able to catch any stragglers. One or two might make it up to you, but I doubt it.” 

Dean bites his lip. He hates the idea of Sam and Bobby down here, facing down demons with nothing more than a few rock salt shells to protect them, but he hates the idea of leaving Cas’ body unprotected even more. That’s why they made the decision to split their forces: Sam and Bobby downstairs, essentially performing crowd control on the demons, while Dean and Gabriel are upstairs, guarding Cas’ body. 

Dean pauses. Bobby is busy downstairs, finishing salting the windows, while Gabriel is upstairs with Cas, making his room secure. For now, it’s just him and his brother. 

“By the way, thanks.” Sam starts at the words, but Dean doesn’t stop to let him express his shock. This is the kind of shit that only has one chance to be realized. “I know it’s a pretty far cry from Stanford, and you’d rather be there.” 

Sam opens his mouth, but Dean steamrollers on. He’s going to finish this, damn it. “And I know we both said some shit that night, but I just wanted you to know...You’re my brother, and there’s no one more important to me than you. No matter what. Even if you want to live the apple pie life and have two kids and a dog and wear weird socks while you barbeque in the backyard.”

Dean claps his jaw shut, because he’s dangerously close to babbling. It just hit him all at once: that Sam showed up, that Sam abandoned his picture-perfect campus and his brochure cover friends to come and load shotguns with Dean. He and Bobby both showed up. When he needed them, they came. He can’t think of anyone else who’s ever  _ chosen _ him. 

Sam sniffles, and his eyes are glassy when he looks at Dean. “You’re my brother,” he says, like it could ever be that simple. 

Maybe it is.

“Anyway,” Sam says, with that little smirk Dean knows oh so well, “I think you’ve got someone even more important in your life now.” His eyes flick to just over Dean’s shoulder and his smirk grows. 

Dean turns around. Cas is coming down the stairs. When he catches on that both Winchesters are staring at him, he tilts his head to the side. “Something on my face?” he asks. 

“Just finishing up,” Dean says, before Sam can get it into his head to answer. “You and Gabe get everything set up on your end?”

“He’s put up every ward in the room that I know, and some that I don’t.” Cas smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nothing to do but wait, I suppose.”

Cas’ words prove prophetic. Bobby finishes downstairs, and there’s an awkward meeting between him and Sam at the top of the stairs. Mostly, they shuffle around and look anywhere but at each other. Dean just thanks his lucky stars that Gabriel refuses to leave Cas’ room. If he were here to witness this farce of emotional constipation, Dean doesn’t think he’d ever hear the end of it. 

“Well, good luck,” Bobby finally says. His beard twitches, in some kind of Morse code of emotion. “And hey. If Sam and I do our jobs right, you’ll have a pretty boring night.” 

“Looking forward to it,” Dean answers. He’s dangerously close to saying something chick-flickish, so he leaves before that can happen. Cas catches him when the elevator doors open. As the shadows lengthen outside, Cas has gotten more and more antsy. Right now, he’s almost flickering in and out. His whole appearance has a kind of static sheen to it, like he’s a television program that can’t quite get the juice to come through clear. It’s another unsettling thing in a day of unsettling events. 

He walks into Cas’ room. It’s still as uncomfortable as it was the first time he entered, though that day feels like ages ago. Cas’ body is still there, motionless and eerie. The machines continue on as ordered, making sure that Cas’ body still functions without him. It reminds Dean of an automated house, performing the rituals even without the owners there to supervise. Lights are on, but nobody’s home. He swallows and deliberately looks away. 

Gabriel is nervous, and jittery with it. He paces through Cas’ room, careful not to touch any of the fresh traps or sigils, which gives him about a five-foot space to work with. For the first ten minutes, Dean manages to ignore him. But then, between Cas’ light show and the weary tread of Gabriel’s boots against the floor, Dean’s patience snaps. 

“Could you maybe sit down somewhere? For, like, five minutes?” 

Gabriel looks at him, upper lip already curled in a sneer. He takes in a deep breath, clearly ready to take Dean’s head off, but he’s stopped by the faint rattle of windows. Outside the hospital, the wind is howling like some wild beast. The sound sinks through Dean’s skin, into his bones and blood. It’s cold and pitiless, tearing at his edges until he’s raw and bloody. 

“That’s not good,” Gabriel mutters, all of his bravado vanished. He’s no longer the smirking, arrogant man who delights in mischief. Now, he’s a hunter. Every piece of him is on alert, poised and dangerous. Dean pats at the gun nestled against the small of his back. Next to him, Cas’ form flares and flickers wildly before it settles. 

“They’re here,” he says, unnecessarily. Cas’ eyes are wide, the whites showing around rings of blue. Dean’s never seen him terrified before, but he sees it now. Cas is practically trembling with fear. 

“Hey, Casper!” His shout drags both Gabriel’s and Cas’ attention towards him, but it’s Cas he locks eyes with. “You’re going to be all right, understand? Don’t go ghosting out on me, not when I need you.”

The terror vanishes from Cas’ face. “Really? Of all times to make a ghost pun, you choose now? And that one wasn’t even good.” 

He rolls his eyes, but Dean’s ultimate purpose was accomplished. Cas is the most solid that Dean’s seen him since they walked into the hospital. Surprisingly, Gabriel also looks steadier.

Dean’s just finished that thought when the lights flicker. They flash off and on several times, before finally dying with a low hum. The emergency lights flick on a moment later, bathing everything in an eerie red. “Well, that’s not disturbing,” Gabriel mutters. 

His voice is a shock in the quiet of the room. It feels as though the world is holding its breath, waiting for the plunge. Dean feels like he’s hovering on the edge of a roller coaster, in that last second before the first drop. 

The screams start right about then. 

Dean’s heart drops to his knees before it springs up to take permanent residence in his throat. He doesn’t recognize Sam or Bobby’s voice in the noise, but that doesn’t mean they’re not shouting. His hand clenches around the barrel of the shotgun. Every instinct screams for him to go downstairs and help, but he can’t. 

The hospital’s PA system kicks into life, and Sam’s voice pours out of the speakers. He doesn’t seem to have any trouble with the Latin, and the screams pick up in intensity as he continues. Dean remembers how the demon howled when Cas exorcised her, the unearthly pitches her voice managed to reach. And that was just one. Judging from the noise he hears, there have to be at least ten down there. 

“Jesus,” Gabriel breathes. “We might actually pull this shit off.” 

Of course, that’s when everything goes to shit. 

The first indication that something might be wrong is the sudden loss of pressure. Dean’s ears pop as a persistent ringing starts up in his skull. He rubs at the side of his head, trying to make the world reorient itself.

The PA system screeches before it snaps into a staticky silence. The memory of the sound hangs in the air, along with Dean’s heart. Then, everything comes crashing down to earth as the first shotgun blast echoes through the hospital. 

Dean’s halfway out the door when he stops and looks back over his shoulder. Thin, white lines of tension are etched onto Gabriel’s face. His blade, which he swears can kill demons, looks so pathetically inadequate in the face of what they’re dealing with. Worse is Cas, who’s snapping in and out of view as quickly as blinking.

Another blast echoes through the halls. Dean listens, but he can’t hear anything else other than the sounds of chaos. He’s almost vibrating with the need to do  _ something,  _ and looking at Cas’ fading form isn’t helping him. 

“Steady, Winchester,” Gabriel mutters. He spins the blade in his hands, but any semblance of confidence he ever possessed is long gone. “Keep to the plan. Singer and your brother can handle themselves. We need to stay here, just in case.”

Just in case. Dean hates that phrase. 

His hands are sweaty around his gun, and his heart is beating at about twice its normal rate. He can’t stay, he can’t go, and he certainly can’t help Cas. 

The elevator dings. Dean and Gabriel spare a look at each other, then take position on either side of the door. Cas hovers by his body, looking generally pissed. Dean can’t imagine what he’s going through. For all the frustration he feels at his own inertia, he at least has the option of fighting. Cas is forced to sit by and watch other people fight for him. Dean can’t imagine a worse fate. 

“Dean? Gabriel?” Sam’s voice winds down to the corridors, and Dean almost sobs with relief. 

“Down here,” he calls, only to be smacked by Gabriel a second later. 

“Are you insane?” he hisses, eyes narrowed venomously. “What if they’re possessed?” 

Sam and Bobby choose that moment to stumble into the room, right across the devil's trap and out of it, thus disproving Gabriel’s theory. Dean would spend more time gloating about that, were it not for the fact that Sam’s shoulder is shoved underneath Bobby’s arm, and Bobby’s leaving a trail of red behind him. 

“Bobby!” Dean shouts, taking Bobby’s other side. From here, he’s able to see the long cut across Bobby’s chest and the deep slices in his thigh. Luckily, the wounds don’t appear life-threatening. Unluckily, they’re enough to keep Bobby gasping in pain and out of the fighting. Dean and Sam set him up in the corner of the room with a shotgun, and toss a roll of bandages from the first aid kit in his direction. 

“We managed to get some of them in the devil’s traps,” Sam pants. He reloads his shotgun with jerky motions. “They were ready for us. I don’t know how, but they were. We got some exorcised, but they killed the PA system. We laid down salt lines on our way up here, but my guess is that they’re not too far behind us.” 

“Awesome,” Dean mutters. The element of surprise was one of the few things they had working in their favor. “Well, all in favor of a last stand?” 

Sam rolls his eyes and pumps the shotgun. Dean can’t help but think of him that one afternoon as he left the building at Stanford, laughing with his friends as though he didn’t have a care in the world. He deserves that life. He doesn’t deserve to be stuck in filth and horror, and he certainly doesn’t deserve to die in this hospital. 

“Hey, I’m sorry about this,” Dean offers, standing next to Sam. “I mean, I know you had a pretty sweet setup at Stanford.”

“Eh.” Sam’s face twists in a moue of thought. “My roommates snores.” 

“Boys?” Gabriel’s voice is tight with tension. “Much as I love the gallows humor banter, I think we’re about to get company.” 

Dean feels them before anything else. The air in the hallway goes cold, and then a gust of wind rushes towards them. It hits Dean like a fist to the chest, knocking the breath out of him. It tears at his clothes and his eyes, causing his vision to blur. He tries to catch his breath, but the wind steals it right out of his lungs. 

Dean manages to drag in a single breath before the world explodes. 

A rip races through the floor, tile and concrete cracking in a long, jagged line. The crack rips through the warding and sigils Gabriel so diligently put up, rendering all of them useless scribbles. Dean’s heart drops, but he doesn’t have a lot of time to examine the feeling or plot a new strategy. Within seconds, the demons are on them. 

The way they move reminds Dean of bad stop-motion films, where the director doesn’t pay attention to how far the figures move between takes. It seems like they cover an irrational distance within the space of a few blinks. One appears in the doorway. A second later, and it’s across the room, grappling with Sam. 

Shotgun blasts ring out through the room, and the floor is slick with holy water. Dean gets a chance to see Gabriel’s blade in action as he sinks it into the gut of a demon, then gets the pleasure of watching that demon die. Its skeleton lights up, revealing the monster within the shell of the person, as electricity snaps around its body. Flames seem to burst from its eyes, and then the body topples to the ground, nothing but an empty vessel. 

The other demons stare at Gabriel for a long, terrible moment. Then, they focus all of their energy on him. Dean and Sam rush to his help, while Bobby provides cover in the background, but without a fancy blade of their own, there’s only so much they can do. 

Dean doesn’t see when Gabriel goes down, but he hears it. Even over the sound of demonic snarls and grunts and the varying noises of flesh splitting flesh, the crack of Gabriel’s leg sounds like a cannon. Dean  _ feels  _ it, deep in his gut, his own body twisting in sympathetic pain. Even the demons freeze, seemingly surprised by their own daring. The sound of Gabriel’s agonized howl spurs them back into action, this time with a renewed frenzy, as though his pain is a goad to their bloodlust. 

The emergency lights flicker, and a familiar breeze tugs at Dean’s clothes. He catches a glimpse of Cas out of the corner of his eye, his face set and straining in concentration. However, after a few seconds, Cas is incapable of moving anything larger than the pen on the side table. Even that effort looks as though it might send him careening off the mortal coil. 

“Dean,” Cas pants, looking like he’s dangerously close to either collapsing or evaporating, “Dean, I can’t—”

Dean would answer, but at that moment, he’s bowled over by two demons, both of them attaching themselves to his arms. He snarls, jerking against their hold, but they drag him backwards. He hears Cas shouting his name, just before an unearthly cry shakes through Dean. He cranes his head around just in time to see a demon toss half a can of Morton’s salt directly in Cas’ face. Cas howls, writhing back in pain as he clutches at his face. 

“Son of a bitch!” Dean shouts. He wrenches himself forward, only to be slammed back into the wall. The collision is so forceful that it knocks the air out of him. 

“Well, isn’t this an embarrassment of riches,” a new voice drawls. 

Dean turns to the door. A woman stands in the doorway, impassively surveying the room. One corner of her lips quirks up as she takes in the chaos. 

Bobby is slumped in the chair in the corner, shotgun dangling from his limp fingers. He’s already started to bleed through his hastily assembled bandages. Gabriel is huddled against the wall, his face pale and tight with pain. He clutches at his knee, knuckles white as he digs into his jeans. A demon so large that he makes Sam look regular size has his brother by the scruff of the neck. Dean struggles against the two demons who have his upper arms in a vise grip. Cas is trapped inside a ring of salt, his form flickering and his edges hazy. 

They don’t much resemble the saviors of the world. 

The demon’s eyes light on Cas as her lip lifts up in a sneer. “Well, there you are, Blue Eyes. You know, you’re a really hard guy to track down. A girl might think you didn’t appreciate her company.” 

Cas smiles, tight and a little mean. “Yeah, well, you went a bit further than I wanted on the first date. Too aggressive.” 

Looking at him, it would be almost impossible to tell that he’s terrified. A fierce love pulses through Dean, the instinct to  _ protect  _ surging up thick in his throat, and he tries to yank away from his captors, to no avail. 

“Some guys like that in a girl. Although…” The demon’s eyes flick to Dean. Caught under that flat, black gaze, he shudders. “I guess you’re not really looking for good qualities in a  _ woman _ , huh?” 

Absurdly, Dean flushes. Castiel, who is made of sterner stuff than Dean ever will be, stares her down. 

“Anyway, we’ve got a deadline to meet.” Her eyes fall to Cas’ body, and she grins. It reminds Dean of a shark’s mouth opening, wide and toothy, big enough to swallow the world. A shiver of fear runs down his spine. 

“Leave him alone!” he bellows, fighting hard enough to dislocate something. “You fucking bitch, you leave him alone!” 

“Shut your mouth before I rip your tongue out,” the demon says, eyes flicking towards him before she advances on Cas’ body. Something greedy and almost lascivious flashes in her eyes as she stretches out her hand towards his sleeping form. “Look at you,” she breathes. Her hand hovers over Cas’ chest before it descends. 

At the first touch of her hand, Cas shrieks. He blinks in and out of existence, strobing wildly. Dean’s shouts mingle with Gabriel’s curses, but the demon just laughs. “I thought this day would never come.” 

Her nails dig into Cas’ chest, cruel and uncompromising. By this point, Cas is beyond screaming. All that escapes him is a weak burble as he stares helplessly at his body. 

“I’d really like to sit here and savor the moment, but unfortunately, we’ve got places to go, things to do, worlds to end.” The demon tosses a facetious grin over her shoulder. “You know how it is.” 

She rips the blanket off of Cas’ body. Without that covering, he somehow looks even smaller and more vulnerable, his sturdy waist and shoulders dressed in nothing more than a pair of scrub pants and top. Cas is gasping soundlessly, shuddering in horror as she runs her fingers across his stomach. 

“Get your fucking hands off him, you fucking bitch—” Dean starts, but a casual flick of her fingers silences him. No matter how much he screams, he can’t make any noise. Cas looks at him, anguished and fearful, and Dean’s chest twists to see him like that. 

“Now, where were we?” The demon trails her fingers along Cas’ torso. The gesture is almost sensual, but there’s nothing comforting in her touch. Her eyes are closed as she continues, almost as though she’s listening to a radio none of them can hear. 

When she comes to Cas’ hip, her eyes flick open. Pitch-black orbs stare hungrily down at Cas as a greedy grin splits her face. “Well, there you are,” she croons. 

She rips Cas’ top up, exposing skin gone pale from lack of light. Dean’s breath catches in his chest, from rage and shock and secondhand humiliation—his first time looking at Cas’ body, and it’s at the hand of the demon who’s molesting him— for an entirely different reason. 

The demon strokes her fingers over the dark lines of ink curling around Castiel’s hip. From his viewpoint, Dean can make out the shape of a pentagram, surrounded by a simple image of a sun. His shell-shocked brain floats up the knowledge of anti-possession tattoos. With that knowledge comes a wave of foreboding. 

“No, no, no,” Cas chants, his voice tiny and swallowed up by the storm around them. “No, please—” 

The demon places her hand on Cas’ bare hip. Even from far away, Dean can almost feel the wave of heat emanating from her palm. The sickening scent of burst flesh reaches him, but worse than that—

Cas’ wail is otherworldly, crossing the line between life and death and leaving nothing behind. Sam and Bobby are screaming, and maybe the demons are howling as well. Glass shatters around them, the emergency lights flashing wildly. They’re all going to die here, he’s going to be torn apart, ripped literally in half—

The demon pulls her hand away from Cas’ skin. Dean looks away from the ugly burn on Cas’ skin, his stomach roiling in rejection. Behind him, he can hear Gabriel gagging and Sam cursing quietly, but he keeps his eyes on the demon. 

Gabriel’s pleas ring out shrill and terrified in the room as the demon begins unplugging Cas’ body from the various machines keeping him alive. “Leave him alone, take me, please, leave him alone—”

The machines scream as their wires dangle to the ground. In his salt circle, Cas is barely visible, his hand clutching at his chest. He’s fading, right before Dean’s eyes, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it, there’s nothing he can do to save him. 

With gentle motions, the demon works the tube out of Cas’ throat. Without any machines attached to him, Cas’ chest ceases to rise and fall. Tears spring to Dean’s eyes. This is it, this is really—

He’s going to watch Cas die, for real this time, and there’s nothing he can do about it. 

The demon grips Cas’ jaw, pushing his mouth open. Hushed denials fall from Cas’ ips, but they’re just broken pleas. There’s nothing that can save him now. 

He’s not even afforded the small mercy of screaming when the demon leans in close to Cas, almost like she’s going to kiss him. Instead of that mockery of intimacy, however, she opens her mouth. Dean watches with slow, creeping horror as black smoke pours out of her mouth and into Cas’ body. 

Cas shakes, almost gagging. He’s nearly transparent, but it’s worse than that. He looks as though he’s splitting apart, his shape twisting and writhing. Dean watches, helpless. 

The demon’s body suddenly goes limp as she sprawls across Cas. Dean waits, watching Cas’ body. Perhaps it didn’t work. Maybe…

All his hope dies when Cas’ fingers twitch. His gorge rises as Cas’ body sits upright, too stiff and jerky to be completely human. He turns towards the room, head tilted at an awkward angle. 

Black eyes open in Cas’ face and survey the room. His face splits in a grin as he stands up, bare feet hitting the floor with a soft thump. He walks past Cas’ salt ring, sparing the ghost a single, withering look. “Thanks for the loaner,” he says, his voice too light and nasal to be Cas. “Normally, I like them with a little less damage, but transport was going to be an issue.” 

He turns to the demons. “All right boys, you know where we’re going. Quickly, please, timing is an issue.” 

“What about the hunters?” one demon asks.

Cas’ face twists in a gleeful smile. “It’s not as though they can stop us now. Leave them be. Let them see what’s going to happen next.” Cas leans in close enough to Dean that if Dean were to move forward just an inch, they would touch. He keeps himself rigid, not wanting any bit of his flesh to touch the creature who’s perverted Cas. 

Cas pulls away. Dean hears the echoes of his footsteps as he walks down the hall, away from them, and towards the end of the world. He doesn’t even notice that the demons have left until he sags to the ground. 

The room is silent, apart from Gabriel’s tiny gasps of pain and the persistent alarm of the machines. Dean stares at the empty bed, the wires and blanket still dangling off it. He crawls forward and swipes his hand through the salt ring, freeing Cas. 

Cas stops his horrible choking noises as he steps forward, but the relief fades quickly from Dean’s mind. 

The demons have Cas’ body. 

It’s all over now. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	16. the blood run from my veins

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

There’s never time to wallow in your own misery. Dean spares himself about three seconds before he’s pushing to his feet, his brain already working around this new obstacle. It’s never over until the fat lady sings, and call him stupid, but he’s not hearing the final notes just yet. 

He looks at Bobby. Even for all his bravado, Dean still wants Bobby to take charge, like when he was a kid and he and Sam were squabbling so badly he never thought they would find a way out. Bobby would somehow cut through the Gordian knot of their bickering and find a way to settle their disagreements. The belief was born then, that there was nothing Bobby couldn’t do. 

But Bobby looks remarkably fallible now, pale and bleeding. Still, he seems to be doing better than Gabriel, who’s trembling with pain and horror. He tries to get to his feet, but doesn’t make it up more than a few inches before he’s sliding back down, hitting the ground with a sharp cry of pain. 

“We have to go,” Gabriel pants. All traces of mirth have vanished from his face, and Dean didn’t think he’d miss it as much as he does. “Or, you have to go.” 

He holds the blade out to Dean. A few drops of blood are drying on its hilt. Dean looks at the blade, then at Gabriel. “You want me to…” 

Gabriel rolls his eyes. “I’m not running any marathons in the next couple of hours, and in case you hadn’t noticed, time is now a priority. You need to take this and go. Cut through every single one of those black-eyed bitches if you have to, but you need to save my brother.” 

Dean chances a look at Cas over his shoulder. Cas is fading fast, clinging to existence with nothing more than sheer force of will. “Cas?” he barks. The sound of his voice seems to anchor Cas, bringing him more solidly into view, but it’s only a moment before he starts flickering once more. 

Cas looks at him, anguish and agony in his eyes. “It’s...my body,” he says, gripping at his chest. “I think...I think they’re bleeding it.” 

Dean curses, lowly and fluently, before he takes the blade from Gabriel’s grasp. He looks at Bobby, helpless, before Bobby rolls his eyes. 

“You think I’m up for a fight?” He gestures weakly at Sam. “Take your brother. Here.” He shoves a few pieces of paper in Sam’s hands. “It’s the spell to close the Gates. Pretty simple piece of mojo once I figured out the fiddly parts. Say that, and you should be able to slam the Gates closed for good.” 

Sam takes the papers from Bobby. He looks just as scared and lost as Dean feels. “Bobby,” he begins, voice trailing off as he moves closer to Dean. 

“Don’t waste your time crying over me. Gabriel and I’ll be fine. After all, we’re in a damn hospital, and that counts for something. Go. Kick it in the ass.” 

“Dean,” Castiel rasps. The weakness in his voice provokes Dean into action. 

“We’ll be back. Promise.” Dean spares one last look at Bobby and Gabriel before he’s sprinting out of the room, Sam hot on his heels. Cas follows behind, though he’s fading more and more by the second.

“Where’s the graveyard?” Dean demands, throwing the Impala in gear and racing out of the parking lot. Silence follows his question, and Dean risks a look in the backseat. “Cas! Hold it together! I need you to tell me where the graveyard is!” 

“Drive straight. Turn left at the light. The graveyard’s at the corner of Figaro and Mountain View.” Cas groans, biting mercilessly on his lip to stop himself. “Dean, I don’t…” Cas fritzes out of view entirely, and no matter how Dean yells for him, he doesn’t reappear for several seconds. 

“Dean, turn up here,” Sam reminds him, his own voice tight with anxiety. “Cas?” he calls, looking in the backseat as though he’ll find Cas hiding in the floorboards. “Dean, I don’t know — holy shit!” 

Sam jumps backward, clearly unaccustomed to Cas’ nasty habit of popping in and out of existence. “Cas, are you all right?” he asks, once he’s recovered himself enough. “You look—”

Cas, never one to mince words, interrupts him. “The pull of my body is getting stronger. I keep getting drawn back there. I think because...because it’s dying.”

Fear jolts through Dean as he slams his foot down on the gas pedal. There’s only seven minutes between them and the graveyard, but it seems like an eternity. To come all this way and have Cas still die, unleashing Hell along with him…

“Hold on, all right?” His voice is low, practically a snarl. “Cas, you hear me? You are not allowed to die!”

“Dean, I’m sorry. If I hadn’t been so stupid… None of this would have happened.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Dean orders, glancing in the rearview mirror. Most of Cas’ face is too faint to see in the mirror, but his eyes still gleam. “You hear me!” 

Cas obediently shuts his mouth. Dean’s glad. Cas’ apology sounds too much like a goodbye, like someone ticking off a box their bucket list. It’s bad enough Dean has to contemplate all this in his head. Hearing it from Cas is one step too far. 

Breaking into the cemetery takes them longer than it normally would. It’s the work of moments for him and Sam to hop over the fence, but the iron proves impossible for Cas to cross. They have to wait while Cas drifts along the perimeter, searching for a weakness in the barrier. He finally finds it, but when he enters, he’s more of an idea than a shape. 

“Hurry,” he groans. Not that Dean needed the extra motivation. 

It seems as though the very earth is against them, tree roots rising up to trip them and branches clawing at their faces. Dean curses as he stumbles once again, almost faceplanting onto the ground. He doesn’t have time for this, not when Cas is possibly breathing his last. 

There’s no need to worry about which mausoleum the ritual is taking place in. They can see the glow and hear the chanting from halfway across the cemetery. Seems like the demons, having gained their prize, are no longer interested in secrecy. Dean forces his legs to move faster, his breath tearing out of his lungs in harsh little pants. Sam easily keeps pace with him, his longer legs churning the ground. Son of a bitch isn’t even out of breath. 

“Where’s Cas?” Dean asks, looking around them. “Cas?”

“Leave it,” Sam says, slowing as they draw closer to the mausoleum. “We can’t waste any time looking for him. We need to start this _now_.” 

Dean knows Sam is right. The logic is inescapable, but it doesn’t quiet any part of the worry churning through him. It’s all spinning out of control, the path unraveling even as he tries to run across it. 

They slow once they reach the mausoleum. There’s an aura of power that washes over Dean as he steps closer. He’s felt it before, but never this malevolent, like something that looks at him and sneers at his very existence. It takes his breath away, leaving him cold and vulnerable. Next to him, he hears Sam’s breath catch in his throat and knows he’s feeling the same thing. 

These are the people who want to kill Cas and tear their world apart. 

How the fuck are he and Sam supposed to stop this?

There are no guards posted at the doors. No doubt the demons think they’re invulnerable. Their oversight allows Dean and Sam to peek into the mausoleum, down the few stairs to the large interior. Dean’s throat closes when he sees the sight waiting within. 

The demon piloting Cas’ body stands in the center of the floor, clad in nothing but the scrub pants. Lines of red wind down Cas’ chest and stomach to drip onto the floor. It’s enough blood loss to have a normal person unconscious, but the demon doesn’t even falter. Dean’s heart catches in his chest. It’s so much blood...even if they do manage to pull the spell off and close the gates, how is Cas going to survive? 

“Dean,” Sam whispers next to him, his voice faint and laced with panic. “How are we…? There’s too many of them, what are we...?” He trails off, overcome by the odds.

Dean is too terrified to be afraid. He can only focus on immediate concerns. He needs to stop the ritual. If he doesn’t do that, nothing else matters. “Start the spell,” he tells Sam. “I’m going to go see if I can get Cas’ body out of there.” 

“Dean.” 

Dean’s head whips over to the side. Cas’ voice is weak, drifting on the breeze, but when he squints, he can almost make out the shape of him against the dark wall of the mausoleum. “Cas? You hanging in there?”

“Dean, the body...there’s not much left. The ritual is draining it. Soon, there won’t be…” 

“All right. Hold it together. We’re going to get you out of here.” 

“Dean, they burned a binding sigil into my arm. It keeps the demon bound to my body. Even if you try an exorcism, it won’t work.” 

The news hits Dean like a sucker punch. There was always the sliver of hope that he could perform the exorcism and rip the demon out of Cas’ body to stop this, but now… 

“So that’s it?” He looks at Cas. “There’s nothing?”

“You can still destroy the sigil.” Cas’ face twists. “It’ll hurt like hell, but that’s not the problem. The problem is making it through all the demons.” 

“Well, you know me.” Dean reaches into his jacket and grasps the cold hilt of Gabriel’s blade. “Always like to make an entrance.” 

Before Cas or Sam can stop him, he’s moving forward. His rational brain is still a few steps behind, but his muscles know what to do. The blade slides into one demon’s back and into another’s stomach before they ever realize there’s a problem. 

He hopes Sam is left unmolested to do the spell. He hopes Cas can hold himself together long enough to figure out how to crawl back into his body. He hopes Cas’ body can survive the torments visited upon it by the demons. He hopes a lot of things, but he doesn’t allow his mind to concentrate on them. Not now, when the demons have finally taken notice of him. 

His body takes hit after hit, but he barely acknowledges the pain. He can’t, not if he wants to survive. He thinks he feels Cas next to him, but in the melee, it’s difficult to tell. He grunts as a fist strikes his ribs. Pain lances through him, and he drops to a single knee. 

“Dean!” 

Whether it’s Sam’s or Cas’ voice, Dean doesn’t know. Details about the world vanish in a mist of red and black as a fist repeatedly slams into his face. Unconsciousness threatens at the edges of his vision, but he clings viciously to awareness. His fingers clench tightly around the hilt of the blade. If he loses control of that, it’s all over. 

“Stop.” 

A shiver slithers down his spine at the voice. It’s Cas’ voice, but it’s been twisted almost beyond recognition. It’s high, cold, and cruel, the cadence something that no human could ever hope to imitate. It freezes the demons in place. An ominous silence falls upon the mausoleum. 

Dean squints through a swelling eye to see Cas’ body looming over him. Blood flows freely from at least a dozen different wounds, trickling down over his scrub pants and staining them crimson. It puddles at his feet. Dean’s stomach turns, as he begins to see that they’re not going to make it out of here. 

“Hunters.” It’s difficult to tell with pure black eyes, but Dean thinks the demon rolls them. “You’re like roaches, you know that, right? You think you’ve killed one,” it sneers as it runs a hand over Cas’ chest, smearing blood in its wake, “and another two come up to take its place.” 

Sounds of struggling rise from the back of the mausoleum, and Dean’s heart sinks. Sure enough, when Dean turns his head, Sam is shoved to his knees beside him. 

“Dean, I couldn’t get the spell to work, something’s wrong—”

“Shut up,” Dean hisses, but it’s too late. Cas’ head tilts back in a laugh that scrapes its fingernails across the chalkboard of his nerves. 

“Stupid idiots,” the demon sneers. “Once those gates start swinging open, the only thing that will stop them is killing the key.” One elegant finger taps at his chest. “Something tells me you’re not going to be taking that option.” 

“Dean,” Sam whispers urgently, his voice mingling with Cas’. “Dean, do you—” 

Dean knows. He can feel it underneath him, the stirring of the earth. Something is rattling at the bars of its cage, like a huge, lazy cat just beginning to awaken. Dread and horror sit heavy in the pit of his stomach. For all their cleverness, all their hope, there’s no way out of this one. 

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, his voice thick with pain and regret. “I’m so sorry.” 

Who is he apologizing to? To Sam, dragged out of his self-imposed exile on a doomed suicide mission? Bobby, who gave him more support than his own father was ever capable of? Gabriel, who might have been a friend if he was given the chance? To the thousands of faceless people who are going to die once Hell opens its maw? 

To Cas, the man he loves and failed to savel? 

To himself?

“Dean.” 

Dean’s eyes are drawn helplessly to Cas. Somehow, here at the end, he looks stronger than he has all night. He almost looks like he did during those halcyon weeks where the only things they had were each other and the hunt. Dean was so _happy_ then, content with Cas’ company and affection. For the first time, he knew what it was like to have someone care for him just for the sheer pleasure of it, not because they were forced to or obligated to or because he was helpful on a hunt. Dean was so dizzy in love and he never appreciated it, never—

The wind picks up. The demon stands at the center of the mausoleum, blood running down its arms. Cas’ body is too weak to survive this kind of abuse. Even if the world weren’t about to end, there would be no way he could—

“I’m sorry,” Dean chokes out. “Cas, I’m so sorry that I never—”

“Dean, listen to me.” Cas’ voice is strong, and it forces Dean’s attention to focus. “You have to know that I love you. Everything I did, it was all for you.” 

Dean blinks slowly. Somewhere in the back of his mind, alarms are ringing — _this isn’t normal, this isn’t right_ — but he’s too transfixed by Cas’ eyes to put up a fight. 

“I’m so sorry. When you think back on this, know that I would have given anything, not to have it end like this.” 

At that, fear spikes cold and vicious through Dean. He tries to struggle free of the demons’ hold, but their grip is too tight. He’s held prisoner. 

It’s still not enough to stop Cas. He disappears from Dean’s view and then…

Dean knows enough to recognize it. The heaviness in his limbs, the cold seeping through his blood, the numbness spreading through his brain. 

_No. No, no, no, Cas, NO_

**I’m sorry, Dean. You have to believe me, when all this is over, I’m so sorry.**

Dean’s a passenger as his body, fueled by Cas’ last reservoirs of strength, shakes off the demons’ hold. From far away, like he’s submerged underwater, he hears Sam calling his name. He wants to answer, but Castiel has other plans. The blade moves effortlessly in his hands and effortlessly through the demons’ bodies, spilling blood and whatever excuse for life they have on the ground. 

Dean can’t get a read on Cas. His thoughts are hidden, or perhaps he’s just too focused on his ultimate goal to let any hints slip. Either way, Cas focuses his energy through Dean’s body and moves through the demons like a hurricane. 

Within short seconds, there’s only Cas’ body left. A hint of fear flashes across Cas’ face as he looks at Dean. “Great. Fewer bodies to share the glory with,” he sneers, quickly covering his lapse. “Kill all of them; it still won’t stop me. This is going to happen, hunter, regardless of what tricks you pull to stop it.” 

“Sam.” Cas turns Dean’s body around to look at Sam. His brother’s eyes are confused and lost. He clearly understands that something is wrong, but he doesn’t grasp the complexities of it. 

“Dean? Where’s Cas? What are you doing? What the hell is—” 

“Sam. I promise, all your questions will be answered. But for now, please, start the spell.” 

_No, Cas, no, what are you planning on doing, Cas, come on, you’ve got to talk to me, we can make this work, we can stop this—_

**Dean. I’m sorry.**

Dean screams as Cas takes his body and moves towards the demon. There’s no hesitation in his actions, no room for contemplation or regret. There’s only the knowledge of what has to be done. And what has to be done—

Castiel reaches out, using Dean’s left hand. He takes his own body by the shoulder, turning it around to face him. Black eyes look at him. Perhaps there’s a hint of fear in them, perhaps there’s nothing but mayhem and contempt. 

_Cas, NO_

Dean’s hands, Cas’ brain. The blade is in Dean’s hands. Cas moves his arms. 

The blade slides into Cas’ body, parting flesh as easily as silk. 

_CAS NO CAS PLEASE_

Behind him, Sam’s voice falters, stumbling over the Latin, before he continues. The syllables come fast and furious as gnats swarming. With every word, Dean can feel the world solidifying once more, becoming stable underneath his feet. 

He doesn’t care. The only thing that matters is the black fading from Cas’ eyes, the slump of his body as it hits the ground. Inside his mind, Dean screams and claws at the restraints keeping him from reaching Cas. He has to...he can’t…

**I’m sorry…**

Dean crumples to his knees, his body once more his own. Shock and horror make him numb, even as he crawls forward. Sam’s voice is clear behind him, finishing the spell. They saved the world. Cas saved the world.

Cas isn’t moving. 

“God,” Dean chokes out, his trembling hands reaching for Cas’ body. “Oh god, no, please, Cas, no—“

His hand stops within a hair’s breadth of Cas’ body. Months and months spent yearning to touch him, to know exactly how Cas’ skin would feel against his hands and now...the first time he touches Cas will be as a corpse. 

Dean’s stomach lurches in disbelief. “Cas, I’m sorry, Cas, please, please, oh god, please—“

Cas’ eyes snap open, the clearest blue, and latch onto Dean. “Dean,” he rattles out, blood pooling at his lips to run over his chin. “Dean—“

Hope and terror alike spring in Dean’s chest, searing him so completely, he can’t think around them. “Sam!” he screams, shaking so hard his teeth rattle, “Sam, I need help!” 

It’s too much, too much for his broken and bruised body. Dean screams for Sam, even as the darkness crowds in around him. 

The last thing he sees are Cas’ eyes drifting shut. 

~*~*~*~*~*


	17. the ghosts that we knew

~*~*~*~*~*

  
  


The soft sound of a persistent beeping draws Castiel down. 

He had been floating, pleasantly boneless, through the air. There was no sense of body, no relentless tug from gravity to interrupt him. There was just the soft black of nothingness, and Castiel thought he could float forever. 

Then he was given weight, and his mind recognized it as  _ body.  _ Small sparks of sensation started to chase themselves across his form, and Castiel recognized those as  _ feeling.  _ Sounds began to drift into his mind, and with them, thoughts. Bit by bit, Castiel was remade, until all that remained was for him to open his eyes. 

He winces at the bright lights assaulting his vision. He opens his mouth to complain, but all that emerges is a weak, helpless whimper. That must get his point across, however, as the light dulls to a more manageable level. 

Confusion wracks his brain, and his thoughts are scattered nuggets across the expanse of his mind. Memory is slippery and time is elusive, and for all that he’s weighted down and burdened, Castiel feels untethered. 

Unfamiliar faces shove themselves in front of him. They all demand things of him — look this way, open his mouth, wiggle his fingers and toes. Questions assault him as his newly rediscovered body is pulled to and fro in a sadist’s game of tug of war. Castiel groans out his displeasure, his voice still missing. 

“Cassie? Cas, can you hear me? Castiel, blink once if you can hear me, blink twice if you’re a vegetable.” 

Castiel groans in displeasure, rolling his eyes over to Gabriel’s familiar face. His brother is pale and there are dark circles underneath his eyes. His hair is lank and greasy and his clothes are rumpled and wrinkled, like he’s been sleeping in the same outfit for several days. He leans forward, almost coming off of the edge of a wheelchair. A thick white plaster cast covers his leg up to his thigh. Confusion clouds Castiel’s already muddled brain.

When did Gabriel break his leg? 

“You look like shit,” Castiel tries to say, only the words scrape against his throat and get garbled in his mouth. They come out as a pained little groan, which seems to mollify Gabriel. He sinks back into his chair and allows the various doctors to once again poke and prod his little brother. 

Castiel puts up with their tests as best he can. Someone eventually has the bright idea to bring him a cup with ice chips, and he resigns himself to the indignity of having the cup tipped to his lips. He tries to lift his arm and take control for himself, but his limbs seem abnormally heavy and resistant to his will. 

While various scrub-clad figures bustle around his bed, taking blood, undoing and then restoring his connection to various machines, Castiel tries to reassemble the scattered pieces of his brain. 

His memories are disjointed snippets of blood and gore. He thinks back and tastes blood. The heavy scent of sulfur comes to him, along with the sounds of screaming. Individual images flash through his mind, though they’re all unconnected. It’s like watching a movie, cut out of order and with no context provided for any images or sounds. He sees a figure with black eyes looming over him, feels the scorch of pain through his body, the rumble of a car’s engine shake through him. And green. No matter what, there’s always the hint of green lingering around his memory. 

“Mr. Ferrero?” 

Castiel blinks, bringing himself back to awareness. From the combined terseness and worry in the nurse’s voice, Castiel would guess it’s not the first time she’s called his (fake) name. 

Castiel mollifies her with his meekest, most charming smile. The slight narrowing of her eyes tells him that she’s aware she’s being played; the softening around the harsh corners of her mouth tells him that she’s all right with the idea. “I’m sorry,” Castiel says, playing up the contrite angle. “This is all very confusing.” It’s not even a lie. 

“I understand,” she says, the final barrier of disapproval crumpling, “but it’s important for us to get an accurate assessment. You were in a spot of trouble, Mr. Ferrero.”

Castiel could have figured that out himself; waking up in hospitals rarely heralds anything good, but it’s one thing to suspect and another thing to hear outright. Not to mention that the blank spots in his mind are becoming steadily more prevalent. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel catches Gabriel’s fierce glare. It’s punctuated by a swift jerk of his head. The message is clear; not that Castiel needed it. A lifetime of hunting and secrecy have taught him to always play his cards close to his chest. So when the nurse, conciliatory and comforting now that her authority has been recognized, asks him what he remembers, Castiel just puts on his best lost look and shrugs.

“I’m not sure. It’s like...everything’s there, but it’s all jumbled. I’m not sure what’s real and what’s not.” 

The nurse makes a sympathetic face and writes down a few notes on her chart. “That’s to be expected after a traumatic experience. You should start getting some clarity back soon, once your brain and body have a chance to heal.” She looks over her shoulder towards the door. “There are some detectives here who want to ask you a few questions about what happened. If you’re not feeling up to talking to them, I can send them away and tell them to come back when you’re feeling stronger.”

Castiel is about to open his mouth to tell her to do just that — like hell does he feel like talking to Tweedledee and Tweedledumber from the local precinct — but Gabriel cuts him off before he has a chance. 

“I’m sure my brother would like nothing more than to do his civic duty.” He claps Castiel on the shoulder. The gesture appears friendly, but there’s a squeeze that warns him to shut his mouth. “Go ahead and send them in.” 

While Castiel is going to take his revenge for his brother speaking over him, he has to admit curiosity for what’s going to happen next. Though it might appear otherwise, Gabriel rarely does anything without a reason. The reason, at least for the detectives, becomes immediately apparent as they walk into the room. They can dress in snazzy suits, coif their hair, and flash all the badges they want, but like always recognizes like. 

Though why Gabriel wants him to talk to this batch of hunters is beyond him. 

“Cas?” one of the hunters asks, the one who stepped into the room with the eagerness of someone repeatedly denied. He’s good-looking, broad shoulders atop a figure that’s to die for, and a face that probably gets him in trouble at the bars. Despite his aching body, interest stirs in Castiel. Maybe after someone explains to him whatever this is, he can talk to Green Eyes alone. There’s something there, at the back of his mind, like an itch he just can’t quite scratch, and it has to do with this hunter. 

But for now, he’s more interested in how Green Eyes knows his name. 

“Hi,” he says cautiously, because some hunters are straight-up psychos, but also politely, because it never pays to piss off people who could help him in the future. “I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced?” 

The room breaks into chaos. 

—-

Minutes later, the chaos has been moved outside his room. Castiel can still hear them arguing — Gabriel, Green Eyes, Gigantor, and another, unidentified but gruff voice — but he can’t make out what they’re saying. Green Eyes’ voice rises above the low rumble of the other voices, but the nuances of his argument escape Castiel. Once more, he silently curses Gabriel for moving them out of his room. 

“I have to talk to them,” he told Castiel, something apologetic and worried glinting in his eyes. “There’s...I have to talk to them.” He wheels himself out the door after the hunters and closes it behind him, muffling outside sounds. 

For all of twenty seconds, Castiel entertains the notion of sneaking out of bed. That’s how long it takes him to attempt to sit upright and fail, dropping back to his mattress with a low grunt of pain. Clearly, he’s not moving anywhere for awhile. That fact rankles, but worse than that is being excluded from a conversation that is clearly all about him. 

What remains a mystery is why he can’t be a party to the conversation. He’s accustomed to excluding victims on hunts; their brains aren’t ready to comprehend exactly what injured them. But it’s not as though  _ he’s _ going to have a meltdown over a supernatural attack. He’s seen the gamut of horrors — demons, ghosts, ghouls, vampires, and even, in one memorable instance, a siren. 

What happened that was so horrible that Gabriel thinks he can’t handle it? 

Castiel glares daggers at the door, all to no avail. It’s at least thirty minutes before Gabriel wheels himself back into the room. He’s alone. 

“Where did the other guys go?” Castiel tries, and fails, to push himself upright once more. 

Gabriel glances towards the door, as if he expects to find the other hunters lurking there. “They, uh, had another case to finish up. They just wanted to make sure you were all right. Kinda gave us all a pretty bad scare there, Cassie.” Gabriel ducks his head, but not quickly enough to hide the sliver of genuine emotion in his eyes. 

“Uh-huh. Sure.” Gabriel’s explanation contains enough holes to sink the Titanic, but Castiel doesn’t feel like pumping him for information. As much as he hates to admit it, he can already feel exhaustion tugging at the edges of his mind. 

“Take a nap, handsome. When you wake up, I’ll tell you all about it.” 

The last thing Castiel wants to do is take a nap. There are too many missing spots in his memory. He has too many questions to voice. Worse is the suspicion that he doesn’t even know enough to ask the right questions. 

But he can’t keep his eyes open. The answers will be there when he wakes up. 

Castiel falls asleep. His dreams are full of black smoke and rolling green. 

\---

Castiel opens his eyes to find a strange woman in his room. 

This is not entirely unwelcome, though it is a little unexpected. He certainly doesn’t look his best, what with the determined scruff clinging to his chin. Gabriel calls it his peach fuzz, but Castiel has run his fingers over his cheeks and determined that it’s nothing close to the cuteness which that name implies. It feels a little more like the grizzled beard of a particularly unsocial lumberjack. There’s a distinct funk coming from his body, and the hospital gown is unflattering at best. 

Perhaps if the woman wasn’t so dangerously attractive, then he would feel better. But looking like she does, with thick dark hair falling to her shoulders in messy curls, and long legs crossed at the knees, she looks like an unsheathed knife waiting for a hand to cut. 

“You’re awake,” she says, not looking up from the magazine that she’s flipping through. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’m in the hospital with a gut wound and my ass hanging out of a gown,” he answers. He squints to try and discern more of her facial expression, but most of her face is hidden behind large sunglasses. “Who are you?” 

Gabriel chooses that moment to wheel himself into the room. He looks between him and the woman with a mixture of surprise and relief on his face. “Oh good, you’re awake.” He slides into place beside Castiel’s bed. “Cassie, this is Pamela Barnes. She’s a psychic, and she’s here to look at your head.” 

Castiel blinks. Gabriel’s pulled some weird tricks on him before, but bringing a psychic in to see him has got to be among the weirder of his pranks. The woman smiles easily and tosses the magazine aside. She pushes the sunglasses up to perch atop her forehead. 

“Nice to meet you,” she says. She walks over to his bed, thumbing at the button to push his mattress upright. She stops just when his stitches threaten to pull, leaving Castiel to wonder whether it’s her abilities or just innate luck which told her to stop. 

“This might be a weird question, but why do I need a psychic? I’m not hearing any weird voices or anything like that.” Castiel’s eyes flick between Gabriel and Pamela. “And no offense, but if something’s wrong with my head, then shouldn’t I have a real doctor and not someone who runs a hotline?” 

Pamela laughs, not sounding offended in the least. “Oh, those hacks wish they had what I had.” 

“Look, I know that I haven’t been really forthcoming with the explanations, but there’s a reason for that. You got hit with some pretty serious mojo. It was bad enough to put you in the hospital, and we’re worried it might have fucked with your head. Pamela’s here to make sure everything’s working like it should be.” 

Gabriel’s voice is uncommonly serious as he wraps his fingers around Castiel’s wrist. “Just trust me for right now, and I promise, once Pamela has a look and tells me that everything’s fine, I’ll tell you what you need to know.” 

Castiel must still be hazy from the pain meds because he thinks he sees something shift behind Gabriel’s eyes. He blinks, and then it’s gone, but it still leaves him feeling unsettled. But there’s no reason why it should, is there? This is Gabriel, his brother, the person he trusts most in the world. There’s no one he’s closer to, no one else in his life, save the contacts in the hunting world he’s managed to cultivate through the years. 

Gabriel, for all his faults, has never acted without Castiel’s best interests at heart. “All right,” Castiel says, wishing that his voice didn’t crack halfway through the statement. “Do what you’ve got to do.” 

“Ah, look at you so brave.” Pamela rolls her shoulders, looking like a boxer getting ready to enter the ring. She looks at Castiel and her wide smile is dazzling. “Don’t worry; this won’t hurt a bit. Unless you want it to.” 

“Just lie back and think of England,” Gabriel’s voice urges him. Castiel would snap at him to be more mature, but Pamela’s fingers are gently turning his head away from Gabriel, and Castiel’s mind is suddenly encompassed by larger concerns. 

“Relax,” Pamela urges him. She’s dropped the teasing tone and is nothing but professional. Her cool fingertips rest lightly on his temples. “And close your eyes.” 

Castiel obeys but not without a little shiver of trepidation. Even though Gabriel might trust Pamela, there’s still the inherent rejection of letting someone poke around his thoughts. 

Pamela hums tunelessly, and Castiel finds himself drawn into the sound. He drifts along with it, his thoughts curling around the noise. There are clouds in his mind, a cool breeze, and the sensation of silk running through the wind. Disquiet rumbles in Castiel’s mind, but just as soon as it appears, it’s softly brushed away. 

Pamela is in his mind, he realizes. The thought should bother him more than it does, but he doesn’t have much to be scared of. She’s a polite guest, unobtrusive to the point that Castiel isn’t aware of what she’s looking for. It’s like having a very quiet neighbor in another room. He tries to follow her, but he’s gently rebuffed. Undeterred, Castiel tries to follow. Unseen and silent, he thinks he’s making good progress, at least until he runs into a wall. 

Pamela slips up and over the wall. Maybe through. Maybe under. No matter how she does it, she manages to make it on the other side, leaving Castiel behind. Frustrated, he pushes against the wall, searching for weaknesses. He finds a single imperfection in the otherwise blank, smooth surface and pushes against it--

_ Black eyes flashing and laughing at him, “Where are you going, little hunter?” called after him, his heart pumping wildly in his chest, pain, and then the low rumble of Led Zeppelin in ancient speakers, a flash of a cocky grin, bright green eyes, his name whispered reverently into the dusty air of a motel, his own chest swelling, dying, he’s dying, he’s-- _

“Easy, slugger. You’re all right, just breathe.” 

Slowly, thoughts and awareness come back to Castiel. A mild, feminine voice murmurs soothingly while soft fingers stroke through his head. Eventually, Castiel gathers himself enough to open his eyes. Once he did, he wishes that he hadn’t: the bright hospital lights are excruciating to his pupils, and Gabriel’s face is shoved close to his, giving him an unpleasant view up his brother’s nostrils. 

“Go away,” Castiel mutters, pushing weakly at Gabriel. Gabriel falls back into his wheelchair, grumbling about ungrateful assholes. Pamela still looms over him. A tiny frown knits her brows together, but when Castiel looks up at her, her face smooths into an unreadable mask. 

“You got a little kickback. It’s always a little unpredictable whenever you’re poking around in someone’s noggin.” 

Something about her explanation doesn’t ring true, but Castiel can’t put his finger on the inconsistency. The longer he’s awake and aware, the more his brain coalesces, and less he can remember about Pamela’s intrusion. He tries to hold onto the memory; there’s something there, something  _ important,  _ but it slips away from him, like fog in a clear morning. 

He’s left with nothing more than a nagging headache and a vague irritation that Gabriel doesn’t seem quite able to meet his eyes. Instead, it’s Pamela who takes the reins of the conversation. 

“So it looks like you’re going to be fine,” she says. Something in her voice feels brittle and empty, but Castiel doesn’t give it much thought. “No permanent damage, and everything looks like it’s working as it should be. Looks like that hole in your gut might be your biggest problem. Of course, I haven’t seen your ass, so maybe that’s your biggest problem.” 

Pamela’s face twists in a broad wink. Something’s still off about the gesture, like a troupe of dancers performing flawlessly, but for the prima ballerina who remains just a step off beat from the rest. Castiel tries to tease out the meaning and purpose from the rest of it, but he’s so very tired, his brain so very in need of sleep. 

“Look, why don’t you get a little shut-eye. I’ll walk Pamela out. Or, you know, whatever,” Gabriel says, turning his wheelchair with surprising dexterity. 

“Take care of yourself, Castiel,” Pamela says. Her eyes are kinder than Castiel thought they were capable of, her smile turning sad at the edges. “And if you ever think that you need help, come see me. 415 Chestnut, Pontiac, Illinois.” 

“You’re not going to write it down?” Castiel mutters, his voice thick and sleep-heavy. 

Pamela’s wide grin is a beacon. “I’ve been in your head, remember? I know you’ve got a hell of a memory.” That same sadness sweeps over her face again. 

It’s the last thing Castiel sees before his eyes close, dipping him back into darkness once more. 

  
  


\---

  
  


When he wakes up next, it’s just him and Gabriel in the room. Castiel frowns, pushing the heel of his hand into his chest to try and ease away the empty ache. It never quite vanishes, but it subsides enough for him to continue. Gabriel takes up his place at Castiel’s bedside, ready to keep him entertained, but there’s only one pressing question in Castiel’s mind. 

According to Gabriel’s hasty explanation, he’s been in a coma for the better part of six months. Which is all well and good, but Castiel has no idea how he went from sprinting through a graveyard to waking up in a hospital with a hole in his stomach. The story comes out, in bits and pieces, over the next day. Gabriel tells it to him in between his bouts of unconsciousness. It’s familiar, in the way a half-remembered dream is familiar, like it happened to someone else, or in a movie he saw once, long ago. 

Castiel presses his hand against his stomach. He remembers the pain tearing through his body, but he can’t remember any of the events leading up to it. “You’re sure that’s it?” he asks suspiciously. 

Gabriel shrugs. Castiel thinks he sees a shadow shift behind his eyes, but that’s quite possibly a result of the complicated tincture of drugs currently pumping through his body. “I don’t know what else you want me to say. You went into a hunt like a hotshot, got in over your head, and managed to get yourself knocked into a coma. While I was babysitting your ass, I kicked a few demon asses, until one of the little black-eyed devils managed to hitch a ride in your meatsuit. The shock of the possession managed to shake you out of your beauty sleep, and you woke up. You then demonstrated the exceptional problem-solving skills that have always made you a force to be reckoned with and stabbed yourself, thus killing the demon and opening a hole in your colon that took several doctors several hours to fix.” 

Castiel’s forehead wrinkles. His brain accepts Gabriel’s words as truth, at the same time as it tries to grasp at the frayed threads of reasoning. It’s like trying to finish a puzzle with only half the pieces, or completing a paint by numbers without the blueprint. 

There’s more to the story. He knows there is. But every time he asks Gabriel, his brother becomes uncommonly cagey, dodging around the question and tossing enough witticisms that Castiel eventually falls asleep trying to unravel them all. 

Worst of all, he can’t shake the feeling that he should  _ know _ the hunters who were in his room when he woke up. The memory of them pokes at his brain, keeping him awake when he’s trying to sleep, and whispering doubt in his ears whenever Gabriel speaks. 

For all his faults, his brother has never lied to him. It’s disconcerting to realize that Gabriel is lying to him now. Castiel pokes and prods around the edges of his story, looking for flaws, but his brother is infuriatingly evasive. 

“Why were those other hunters there?” Castiel asks. He’s been trying unsuccessfully to get his damn jello cup open, and finally tosses it aside in a fit of frustration. “I thought you were Mr. Badass.”

“I am,” Gabriel answers, picking up the jello cup and easily peeling the foil cover away in a single motion. “They were hunting something else a few towns away and they thought the cases might be related.”

“You manage to catch their names?” Castiel takes a careful bite of his jello. How anything manages to taste like the color green is beyond him, but this jello has managed it. He sets it aside after a few bites and just barely keeps from vomiting when Gabriel eagerly seizes it. 

“Didn’t really stop to exchange pleasantries,” he says, mouth full. “I was more interested in keeping your insides from becoming your outsides. Why?” The sudden sharpness in his eyes is unnerving. “You got a crush?” 

Castiel frowns. Typical of Gabriel to trivialize his legitimate concerns and questions (though he’s willing to admit that Green Eyes was exactly his flavor of tea). What’s more interesting is the sharp bite of worry behind Gabriel’s eyes before he schools his expression to indolence. 

“Yeah, sure, that’s me,” Castiel mutters. “Trolling the hospital wing for my next pickup.” 

He picks at the rest of his bland hospital food, trying and failing to put the pieces together in his head. That he was in a coma, he doesn’t doubt. Even Gabriel can’t make that many professionals lie and do it well, plus the massive passage of time bears that statement true. That he received a stab wound is, again, not in question: his body is littered with various wounds. The explanation of demons makes sense. The little snippets of memory he’s managed to gather seem concentrated around the idea of demons. 

It’s everything else that doesn’t make sense. How did Gabriel break his leg? Why were three hunters waiting for him to wake up? Why did Green Eyes call him by name and seem so excited to see him? 

Most importantly, why can’t he shake this feeling that he’s lost something indelible, something wonderful and perfect?

—-

A week later, Castiel is discharged from the hospital. He’s still not at one hundred percent, but the hospital can’t really help him any more than it already has. Also, the local cops are getting a little too frustrated with his and Gabriel’s evasive answers. Best just to skip town entirely. 

Due to Gabriel’s leg, it’s Castiel who has to drive them to the family’s hunting cabin. He sits behind the wheel of Gabriel’s sedan, missing his truck, especially when he looks through the collection of ‘80s synth pop that Gabriel prefers. 

“Look through it again all you want, it’s not changing,” Gabriel finally tells him. 

Castiel frowns, though he accepts the logic of his brother’s answer. There’s a song running through his head, however, that he can’t shake, no matter how hard he tries. 

_ I can’t find my bluebird _

_ I listen to my bluebird sing _

_ I can’t find my bluebird _

_ I keep rambling _

Castiel shakes his head. He doesn’t even notice the beat he taps on the steering wheel as he drives. 

—-

They’re in the cabin for six weeks while Gabriel’s leg heals enough to get the cast removed. 

By the end of the first week, Castiel understands why tragic heroes commit fratricide. 

He loves his brother, he really does. It’s just that Gabriel is so  _ much.  _ He’s five pounds of energy and bad ideas shoved into a one-pound bag of inertia. It’s not a good fit for either of them. 

“Come on, Cas,” Gabriel calls from his position on the couch. His leg takes up most of the space, leaving only a thin sliver of cushion for Castiel to sit on. Luckily, Castiel has other plans. “Eduardo is just about to figure out that Maria has been lying to him about his evil twin Rafael, and that it’s really his baby!” 

Castiel blinks slowly, looking up from the page of half-translated text he’s been reading. The archaic German must be muddling his brain, because it takes him several seconds to interpret that his brother is asking to watch a show together. 

“You still watch that crap?” 

“In the  _ espa _ _ ñ _ _ ol.”  _

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Might as well watch Dr. Sexy.” 

Something nips at the back of his mind, a half-forgotten thought that he tries to grab. It slips away from him, leaving him with the impression of convoluted plotlines and laughter shared in a small room. 

As time drags on, Castiel translates every book in the cabin and then refiles all the papers around the place. Against his will, he follows the plot of Gabriel’s telenovela, getting drawn into the storylines. He burns more meals than he cooks and learns to love the taste of singed food. Gabriel becomes increasingly obnoxious, grating against Castiel’s already thin patience. 

Around the second week, Castiel fires up Gabriel’s laptop and starts searching. It doesn’t take him long to find what he’s looking for; after all, he’s very good at his job. 

He waits until the last moment to tell Gabriel. In fact, he was hoping to sneak out of the cabin without alerting him, but for a person who routinely eats himself into a sugar coma, Gabriel is a remarkably light sleeper. 

Castiel’s foot lands on the wrong floorboard, and the creak resounds through the small living room. Gabriel snorts himself awake, eyes already narrowed suspiciously at Castiel. “Going somewhere?” he asks, noticing the duffel bag slung over Castiel’s shoulder. 

“There’s a hunt about four hours away. Should be easy. Judging from the injuries reported, it looks like either a kitsune or a wraith. I’ll have to wait until I look at the injuries, but my money is on a wraith.” 

“You’re probably right,” Gabriel says with a shrug. “Kitsunes are rare; I can’t remember the last time we came across one.” 

“Been a while. Four months or so,” Castiel murmurs. It isn’t until deathly silence falls over the room that Castiel realizes he’s said anything strange. 

“Four months? You sure about that, Cassie?” 

Every one of Cas’ alarms starts to blare at Gabriel’s overly casual tone. Gabriel doesn’t use that tone unless he’s trying to wheedle information out a witness or gaslighting a witness. 

Castiel tries to remember. He hunted a kitsune. He remembers the wounds of the victims, their pituitary glands desiccated. He remembers researching in the library, down to the faint mildew smell of the stacks. He remembers waiting for the kitsune to show its face. 

He remembers all of that, but he didn’t… He never hunted a kitsune, he never killed one, he was never there, because he can’t remember how any of that felt, he can’t remember the knife in his hand, or turning the pages of the book, or even how the cool metal of the morgue drawer felt against his fingers. He was never there, but he  _ was— _

Castiel sinks down on the couch. He clutches his head as a violent pain rips through his skull. “I don’t,” he gasps, clenching his eyes shut against the white flood overtaking his vision. “I don’t know what’s happening—” 

Cool fingers press against his forehead, shocking him back into his body. He almost wishes it hadn’t happened: awareness just makes the pain that much more overwhelming. It feels as though his skull is going to split straight down the middle. The only thing keeping him from falling into a screaming fit are Gabriel’s fingers massaging at his temples. 

“Easy, Cassie,” he soothes, directing Castiel to lay down. “Take it easy, buddy. You’re all right.” 

Somehow, Gabriel conjures a damp cloth, which he places over Castiel’s eyes. Castiel breathes out a slow sigh of relief as the soothing coolness seeps into his temples. For several minutes, neither of the Novaks say anything. Then, when Castiel thinks he can sit upright without his head splitting in half, he pulls the cloth away from his eyes. 

“So, what’s going on with your melon?” Gabriel asks. 

Castiel swallows. It’s almost as if there’s been a net around him since he left the hospital, and now it’s drawing tighter and tighter. He keeps brushing against something massive, but he feels as though grasping it, pulling at it, would tear his sanity apart. 

“I don’t know,” Castiel mutters. He pushes his thumbs into his temples, hissing at the shot of pain the action brings. “I just…” 

A warning jolt of pain sears through his skull, and Castiel stops himself from saying anything further. It’s obvious where the problem lies. 

“Gabriel.” Castiel considers his next words carefully. Though he buries it underneath near-constant sniping and frequent irritation, he adores his brother. Gabriel was there for him when no one else was. It was to Gabriel he ran when his father became too much; it was Gabriel who protected him after their father died. It’s Gabriel who watches his back, Gabriel who keeps him company on the road. Gabriel is his whole world. 

Except, somehow, that’s not true anymore. Castiel doesn’t know how it happened, but he knows he’s missing something, missing  _ someone,  _ and not even his brother can fill that gap. 

Worse than the knowledge that he’s missing an integral part of himself, is the knowledge that his unshakable faith in his brother has been destroyed. For the first time in his life, he can’t trust the words that come out of his brother’s mouth. 

“What aren’t you telling me?” 

Gabriel slants his eyes at him. Castiel stares back into a stranger’s face. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Gabriel recovers. 

Castiel doesn’t hunt. 

He takes up jogging and spends hours each day exploring the dirt paths around the cabin. He loses himself in the forest more often than not, allowing the muggy, silent air to envelop him. Sometimes, if he lets himself drift far enough for long enough, he can almost hear snatches of forgotten conversations. He can never catch the words of these phantoms; he only feels the impression they leave. 

Loneliness. Fear. Anger. 

And yet…there’s longing too. And friendship. Humor and happiness. And finally, a sense of everything settling into place, of rightness and belonging. Castiel would call it  _ home,  _ except he’s never had a real home to compare it to. 

Castiel lurches to a stop, folding in half as he rests his hands on his knees. He pants, the breaths torn ragged out of his throat. Sweat drips down his forehead and nose to splash against the dry ground. He’s shaking, and not from his jog. 

Hunters have a flexible relationship with madness, but Castiel has never trodden that delicate line. He’s never let himself become overwhelmed with bloodlust, never succumbed to the nasty snarl of revenge and violence that seems to motivate most hunters. He’s always been in control. 

He’s slipping. Remembering hunts he couldn’t have been on, hearing things that never happened, yearning for something that doesn’t exist… Whatever hold on reality he had, he’s losing it. 

Castiel forces several deep breaths through his lungs. His fingernails dig into his skin, leaving behind bright red half-moon marks. He stands stationary until he thinks he can control himself before he starts the long walk back to the cabin. 

—-

Gabriel doesn’t want him hunting. 

They’re both healed, so there’s no reason not to start their job up again. Castiel scours through the headlines until he finds a promising lead. A series of grave robberies, each increasing in severity, until finally, the night watchman was found with his throat ripped out. 

The newspaper decries the decline in morality and mourns what social media and video games have done to America’s youth, but Castiel comes to a different conclusion. A ghoul, obviously deciding that if rotten corpse meat was good, fresh meat would be even better. It’s the perfect case for them: easy, quick, and fulfilling. 

Gabriel sets his heels down. 

“I’m still weak,” he protests, flipping through the channels on the TV. “And you’re…” 

He ends that train of thought abruptly, but not quickly enough to stop Castiel’s suspicions. “Something wrong with me?” he asks, almost aggressively. 

“Other than the fact that you’re ugly and not as smart as you think? Nope, you’re golden.” 

“Good. Then stop being lazy and do your damn job.” 

Gabriel’s head snaps towards him, all mirth vanished from his expression. “We need to rest,” he says, in the tone that would make Castiel stop dead in his tracks when he was a child. 

But he’s not a child anymore. He’s seen more and worse than Gabriel has, and has the scar across his stomach to prove it. He’s not content to languish in the cabin while the rest of the world continues. 

There’s also this persistent feeling pressing all around him, the one that screams that he needs to  _ leave,  _ he needs to  _ go,  _ there’s something wonderful waiting for him, if only he knew where to look…

“You rest all you want,” Castiel says, lifting his upper lip in a sneer. “I’m going to do a job.” 

Gabriel shifts from lounging on the couch to standing directly in front of him. The hand he plants in the center of Castiel’s chest feels as solid as a brick wall. “Where do you think you’re going?” 

A clear warning runs through Gabriel’s voice, turning it low and dangerous, but Castiel is a different kind of dangerous. 

“You can’t keep me here, locked down like some child,” he snaps. “You’re fine, I’m fine, so I don’t understand exactly what—“

_ “You almost died!”  _

Castiel has never heard his brother’s voice shred with that particular note of pain. Not when a werewolf raked her claws down his back, not when Castiel, then no more than a child, spat _I hate you, I hate you_ directly to his face, not when their father died and they stood, dry-eyed, at his pyre. This is agony torn directly from his heart, spewed forth to land at Castiel’s feet.

His fight leaves him, and he takes a step back. Gabriel looks shocked, as though he never meant to reveal those words. They echo through the small confines of the cabin, their truth inescapable. 

“It’s my job to look after you, and I couldn’t… When it mattered, I couldn’t do anything. I had to stay behind, I had to trust—“ 

Gabriel clamps his jaw shut, but Castiel’s mind has already leapt forward, connecting the separate dots into a complex. 

“Those hunters,” he says flatly. “They were helping you.” 

Gabriel laughs without cheer. “Sure. If that’s what you want to call it.” He pinches at the bridge of his nose. 

“I’m not stupid. I know you’re keeping shit from me. What I don’t know is why.” 

“Because I don’t want you to die,” Gabriel snaps. “Because I came this close to losing you, and the one time you even brushed up against the truth, you had some kind of fit that laid you flat. And that was just… that was piddly shit. What happens when something major happens? Look, we’ve both been around long enough to know that you don’t mess with stuff like this.” 

Castiel can’t deny Gabriel’s logic, but he’s still furious. Something is being kept from him by the person he most trusts to tell him the truth. 

“I can’t stay here for the rest of my life. And if I had a fit in this cabin, then nowhere is safe. Which means that it’s fine to leave.” Gabriel opens his mouth to argue, but Castiel cuts him off. “I’m leaving tomorrow. Whether or not you’re with me is up to you.” 

Gabriel looks at him, agonized, but Castiel knows he’s already won this fight.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

They return to hunting. 

First come the ghouls, then a particularly determined nest of vampires, followed by a cache of cursed objects created by an antiques dealer who was either incredibly bored or an incredible sadist (who curses  _ can openers?).  _ After that, they encounter a witch who is more erratic than evil. 

While they managed to make it out of that hunt without leaving any bodies behind, they did run through their already meager supplies. Gabriel curses as he sifts through the small briefcase, glass vials clinking together. “We’re out of powdered griffon claws,” he complains. 

Castiel raises a brow as he reloads the shotgun. “Well, did you have a wild night planned, or are you going to be able to hold it together?” 

“I mean, it’s not a big deal until you need some, and then it’s a big _ fucking _ deal.” Gabriel snaps the case shut. “I’ll have to shout through the community and see who has some. Tasha Banes is usually good for this stuff.” 

It turns out that Tasha Banes is  _ not  _ good for powdered griffon claws. Castiel doesn’t know what she tells Gabriel, but whatever she says, it has Gabriel alternating between fuming and laughing. Castiel almost wants to meet her to congratulate her. 

“No joy?” he asks innocently when Gabriel hangs up.

Not buying his act for a second, Gabriel glares at him. “You can wipe that smirk off your face,” he snaps. A pink flush fades from the bridge of his nose. Whatever Tasha said to him must have been delicious.

“Tasha was my last hope,” Gabriel complains, slumping down into his chair. “If she doesn’t have it—” 

Normally, Castiel doesn’t pay attention to Gabriel’s complaining. It’s only when Gabriel mutters, “Guess I’ve got to talk to the old bastard,” that Castiel bothers to take notice. 

“Who have you managed to piss off this time?”

Gabriel shoots him a sharp glance before sighing. “Bobby Singer.” 

At the sound of the name, a twist of recognition grabs Castiel. For a moment, he can see the old hunter: beard grizzled through with flecks of grey, grimy trucker hat upon his head, dark eyes sharp and alert. The image vanishes as swiftly as it appeared, leaving Castiel shaken. He’s never met Bobby Singer before, but he’d be willing to bet his brain he just conjured an almost picture-perfect likeness of him. He hides this tiny slip as best he can, though he still gets a strange look from Gabriel. Castiel ignores that too, scoffing lightly. 

“I wasn’t aware you were well-acquainted enough for him to be pissed at you.”

“What can I say?” Gabriel spreads his arms wide with a smarmy grin. “I have a gift.” 

“Well, I can go pick it up. How far away is it? Day’s drive?” 

What Castiel doesn’t say is that he needs some time on his own. While Gabriel has given up his impression of a smothering blanket, he still watches Castiel’s every move like a hawk, as though he’s convinced Castiel is either going to turn into a gibbering idiot or just drop dead in front of him. Castiel’s even woken up to the disconcerting sight of Gabriel staring at him in his sleep. 

“I don’t need it that badly. I can wait until Tasha gets some more.” Gabriel busies himself with several empty shotgun shells, carefully avoiding Castiel’s eyes. “I don’t like the thought of owing Bobby Singer anything.” 

“But if  _ I _ go, it’ll be  _ me  _ owing him something. Plus, he’s never met me, so if I don’t mention you, he won’t have any reason to dislike me.” 

An interesting series of expressions crosses Gabriel’s face, though they move too quickly for Castiel to analyze. Finally, after several moments, Gabriel tosses the keys to Castiel. “Whatever. Maybe you’ll be able to sweet-talk the old man.”

“I’ll never possess your gift for getting along with people, but I’ll do my best,” Castiel replies. He quickly packs his bag under the watchful eyes of his brother. “Hey,” he says, pausing before he heads out the door. “I’ll be fine, promise. No demons, no hunting. It’ll be there and back again.” 

“Yeah.” Gabriel smiles, but the expression doesn’t reach his worried eyes. “Just call me when you get there and when you’re leaving.” 

Castiel barks out a short peal of laughter before he realizes Gabriel is serious. “Yeah, sure. All right, Mom.” He drives away, Gabriel’s figure small in the rearview mirror, until he rounds a corner and it disappears altogether. 

\---

At first, Castiel intended to make the drive in one long push, but either he’s getting soft or his body still needs more time to recuperate. After five hours of driving, he pulls off into an abandoned side road. It’s protected by overgrowth that doesn’t look like it’s seen a pair of hedge trimmers in years, so Castiel judges it a safe place to park for the night. He clambers into the back seat and tugs the old, musty blanket over him. It smells like blood, sweat, and whatever funk settles in fabric that’s been left in a car for too long. Despite all that, it’s comforting, and it’s not long before Castiel drifts off. 

He falls into a dream unlike any he’s had before. Most of his dreams are filled with blood and terror, or they’re nonsensical affairs, but this is peaceful and serene. He’s lying on a pillowy mattress, surrounded by soft blankets. Everything is tranquil. Gentle light tickles behind his eyelids and warms his body, but Castiel doesn’t feel any urgency to move. 

Weight settles over him, but instead of feeling threatened or suffocated, Castiel just feels content. His lips curve in a smile as he rolls onto his stomach. 

A hand strokes over the nape of his neck, slipping under the blankets to trace a line across his shoulders. Castiel shivers and turns into the pillow to hide his smile. 

“You can’t fool me,” a low, deep voice rumbles. Castiel hears the smile in that voice. Somehow, he manages to hide his happy squirm. “I know you’re awake.”

Castiel’s grin widens, even as he gives a minute shake of his head. “I’m asleep,” he responds. 

Mornings are torture devices, designed to test his limitations of endurance and caffeine addiction. Never once has he felt  _ playful  _ in the morning. But here he is, ducking his face and playing coy, all for an unseen audience. 

Cold bites at his bare skin as the blankets are tugged away. Castiel whines unhappily, but the sound quickly dies as a warm body presses flush against him. A strong arm wraps around his waist and snakes up to his chest. Castiel shifts to his side to feel more of that delicious heat spreading through him. Against his shoulder, lips spread into a smile. The gesture warms Castiel from the inside out. 

“Sure there’s nothing I can do to convince you to be awake?”

The hand on his chest starts a slow exploration. Castiel’s breath hitches as wandering fingers come perilously close to brushing against a sensitive nipple but veer to the side at the last moment. His hips shift restlessly, a fact that doesn’t go unnoticed, if the low laugh rumbling behind him means anything. 

“Don’t be a bastard,” Castiel breathes, as the hand begins its tortuous journey across his skin once more. 

“Oh, are you awake?” Finally,  _ finally,  _ a thumb runs over his nipple, rolling and pinching the taut flesh into a hard nub. Castiel shudders, clenching his fingers in the sheets as his hips thrust forward in a fruitless search for friction. “I hadn’t noticed.” 

“Oh, that’s fucking  _ it _ ,” Castiel growls. He twists in the bed, determined to pin his lover underneath him and exact his revenge. He’s never felt like this before, turned on but mischievous, like he could fall for miles and it would be fine because he has someone to catch him. 

Castiel flips over to find… Nothing. 

There’s no one in the bed with him. 

Castiel digs through the sheets, like he can hope to find his lover hiding there. Frantic desperation seizes him as he tears through fabric and finds nothing, nothing,  _ nothing.  _ His breath tears out of him in ragged gasps. He was so close, he almost had everything—

He opens his mouth to call out a name, but there’s  _ nothing.  _ This person made him happier in the span of thirty seconds than he’s ever been in his entire life, and there’s  _ nothing  _ for him to hold—

Castiel bolts upright as he slams into awareness. His knee slams into the front seat and he slips onto the floorboard. Sightless eyes stare out the window before his surroundings start to make sense. 

Just a dream. It was all just a dream. 

With a small whimper, Castiel settles back and waits for dawn. 

\---

It’s with an ill temper that Castiel knocks on Bobby Singer’s door early the next morning. After his dream, he drifted back to sleep, but it was fitful and restless, filled with half-forgotten images. He had the impression that he was chasing something, except he had no idea what it was, how to find it, or what to do with it when he finally managed to catch it. 

The door opens. 

Bobby Singer is not what Castiel expected. Well, partially. He’s grizzled and looks like life has had her capricious way with him before spitting him out once more. A cap, worn with use and stained with sweat as well as something that looks alarmingly like blood, sits atop his head. He’s dressed in the unofficial hunter’s uniform of flannel and ratty jeans. While the hat is a slightly discomfiting detail, none of the basic outfit is either surprising or disturbing. 

Bobby’s  _ Kiss the Cook  _ apron, however, well-worn and stained with the remnants of many past feasts, is a  _ little  _ disturbing. 

“Bobby Singer?” The question is unnecessary of course, but it can’t hurt to be polite. In that spirit, Castiel also hitches on a tiny smile. 

If he weren’t watching Bobby so carefully, Castiel might have missed the split-second of shock that crosses his face. It’s subtle — a small flare of nostrils, a quick widening of his eyes, a tiny jerk backwards — but unmistakable. Then Bobby’s face twists in irritation and Castiel forgets about it. 

“Yeah? What’s it to you?” 

Castiel winces. He wasn’t expecting Bobby to be quite this ornery, though he supposes he should have. Looks like Gabriel’s descriptions weren’t too far off the mark. 

“Castiel Novak. I heard you were the man to ask for some powdered griffon claw.” 

Bobby’s eyes narrow. “Novak. If you’re Gabriel Novak’s brother, I hope for your sake you’re nothing like him.” 

Castiel smiles as ingratiatingly as he can. “We’re nothing alike.” 

Bobby glares at him suspiciously. For a moment, Castiel thinks he can see a shadow of something deeper pass behind his eyes, but then Bobby blinks and it’s gone. 

“We’ll see about that,” Bobby grumps. His mouth twitches behind his beard. “Come on in, I guess. Don’t touch anything. Some of this stuff, it’d be the last thing you do.” 

Castiel rolls his eyes — like he really needed to be told to be careful in a hunter’s house; this isn’t his first day on the job — but he also makes sure to hide the expression from Bobby. He wouldn’t put it past Bobby to shoot him and call it an accident. 

“Griffon claws, huh? And you want them powdered?” 

“I guess?” Castiel shrugs. “I don’t know the other ways they could be presented.”

Bobby gives him what must be a medium-level glare, but doesn’t offer any criticism. “Let me see what I’ve got in storage.” 

With a statement like that, Castiel expects Bobby to leave the room, but instead, he stays and stares at Castiel for several long, uncomfortable seconds. “I can pay you,” Castiel offers, when Bobby doesn’t make any move to leave. 

That comment gets him a threat-level scowl. “I ain’t a hooker,” is all Bobby mutters before he stalks out of the room. “Don’t touch anything!” is his last warning before he disappears. 

Castiel looks around. Every surface of the house is covered with books and parchments. Books are stacked in precarious piles across the floor, and they cover every piece of furniture in the room. If the books weren’t there, Castiel would guess he was in some kind of sitting room. There’s a bay window with a pullout couch in front of it, and a fireplace behind the desk at the other end of the room. Bookshelves line the wall, creaking underneath the weight of dusty leather tomes. 

Bobby warned Castiel not to touch, but he never said he couldn’t look, and Castiel has a streak of curiosity that will no doubt get him in trouble one day. Several photographs catch his attention, and he creeps closer to the shelves to get a better look. 

The first photograph shows a much younger Bobby with his arm around a pretty blonde woman. Her head rests on his shoulder, while her hand wraps around Bobby’s wrist in a casually possessive gesture. Castiel notes a wedding ring around her finger. He doesn’t remember seeing a ring on Bobby. 

His eyes slide over to another picture, this time showing Bobby with two small children. A note strikes deep in Castiel’s chest at the sight, as though someone has plucked a violin across the room and his heartstrings are resonating in sympathy with the chord. Bobby is careworn in the picture. Even though he’s smiling, his eyes are still shadowed. Castiel looks at the two boys and frowns. Something about them is familiar. 

The third, and last, photograph beckons. Castiel turns his attention to it and recoils with a gasp. 

He’s there. Green Eyes. 

He’s with the other hunter Castiel saw in his hospital room. They both look a few years younger than Castiel remembers, but it’s  _ them.  _ Green Eyes’ mouth is split in a wide smile as he stares straight at the camera. His whole face is alight with mirth and a good cheer that seems almost devilish. Even through the pale medium of photography, his eyes sparkle. 

Something cracks open in Castiel’s chest. 

Dozens of images flash in his mind — motel rooms he’s never visited, an abandoned hospital room, a filthy crypt. Graveyards and small towns, diners and the interior of a car. Castiel gasps and closes his eyes, but he’s still assaulted by sounds, smells, and sights he doesn’t understand. 

A low voice rumbling in laughter and snapping in irritation. Off-key crooning. Short, bitten-off gasps. Leather and gun oil mingling with the impersonal scent of motel soap. Green eyes flashing in anger, in relief, in happiness, in lust—

“What the hell?” 

Bobby’s voice breaks through the haze. Castiel gasps and clutches at his chest. His legs tremble before his knees buckle. He hits the floor and barely feels the pain. Bobby’s hand lands on his back. Somehow, it’s comforting, and Castiel draws strength from the touch. “Hey, you’re all right. Come on now.” 

Bobby half-drags, half-supports him to the couch, sweeping off some extra papers before he deposits Castiel on the cushions. A faint cloud of dust rises, but Castiel doesn’t mention it. He’s too busy making sure that all of his limbs are where they should be. 

“I told you not to touch anything,” Bobby finally says, once it becomes clear that Castiel isn’t about to pass out. 

“I didn’t,” Castiel mutters, his ill-temper escaping in a sharp glance. “I just…” He glances at the photograph and winces as pain sears through his head. 

Bobby follows the direction of his gaze. A disquieted expression settles onto his face. 

Castiel watches him and frowns. “You know something.” 

The blanch of Bobby’s face is all the confirmation he needs. 

“I know lots of things. You’re going to have to be a little more specific.” 

Castiel ignores Bobby’s transparent stalling tactic. “Who is he? The man in that photograph.” When it looks like Bobby is going to keep silent, Castiel tries again. “Look, a while ago, I had… I was hurt. Really badly. And when I woke up, he was there. And ever since then… I can’t  _ remember.  _ I know that I’m missing things, but I don’t know  _ what _ I’m missing or how to start looking for it, but I know that whoever he is, that guy has something to do with it.” 

He digs his teeth into his lower lip to stop himself from continuing. He doesn’t want to tell Bobby Singer about how he keeps on reaching for a body that isn’t there, how he wakes with longing, a forgotten name withering on the tip of his tongue. He doesn’t want to talk about the emptiness he feels, or how it’s taking over his life. How he’s constantly searching for someone. 

“I think,” Bobby begins, something complicated passing over his face, “that you might need to go see a psychic.” 

And it’s then that Castiel remembers Pamela Barnes. 

\---

Castiel frowns as he stares at the small house. Nestled on a small, suburban street, it doesn’t look like anything out of the ordinary. Rows of neatly trimmed shrubs line the sidewalk leading up to the front door. Still, if he’s learned anything from this life, it’s that appearances are often deceiving. 

As he approaches the front door, he notices there’s a small note pinned to it. 

_ Out in the back! There’s a gate around the side!  _ is scrawled across a piece of paper in sloppy cursive. 

Castiel rolls his eyes and searches for the side gate. He finds it easily enough and pushes it open, walking into a backyard almost covered in foliage. He brushes aside a few crawling vines to reveal Pamela sitting cross-legged in the middle of the yard, a few plants in front of her. Her back is to him as she makes a few careful snips in the stems, creating several cuttings. 

“Pamela?” he calls. 

“Hi, Castiel,” she calls, without turning to look. Castiel almost asks how she knew it was him--he hadn’t called to tell her he was coming, and then he remembers. Psychic. 

“I see you remembered my address,” she continues. Whether her voice is on the right or wrong side of playful remains to be seen. “About time too. I really didn’t think you’d wait this long before coming to find me, but I suppose I should have expected it. You’re about the stubbornest thing I’ve ever come across. But you really should have come sooner. You’re practically screaming at me.” 

“I wasn’t aware I was on some sort of clock,” Castiel says sourly. He can feel the truth of Pamela’s words sink in him. Whatever’s happening with him, his heart and soul are howling from it. 

Pamela gracefully unfolds herself from the ground. She walks over to Castiel, wiping the dirt from her hands onto the legs of her jeans. She notices Castiel looking around the garden, taking in the various plants. “Yeah, gardening isn't really my style, but it helps, having all the ingredients you need on hand. Plus, they’re more potent if I grow them myself.” 

She leads Castiel to a small bench, tucked away in the shade of a tree at the back of the garden. Castiel sits down, never taking his eyes off Pamela. 

He flinches when Pamela reaches out towards him, but she doesn’t pull away. Her fingertips rest on his forehead, cool and calming. Castiel fights the urge to close his eyes, but loses. He allows himself to fall into the sensation of gentle fingertips drifting over his skin, carding through the soft hair at his temple.

“Still there, but you’ve been scratching at it,” Pamela murmurs. At Castiel’s confused sound, she explains. 

“The first time I took a peek in your head, I found a wall. Sometimes, when the mind goes through something traumatic, it creates a wall to protect itself from the worst of it, and you went through just about the worst that you could. For months, this wall has been up, protecting you from the memories. Every single time you’ve almost remembered something and collapsed, that was you scratching at the wall. You want what’s behind there.” 

A wordless noise of assent, torn from the deepest part of him, escapes Castiel. 

“I could probably take it down. You’d be able to remember everything, but there might be consequences.” 

“Consequences?” Castiel asks, without opening his eyes. 

“Yeah.” Pamela takes her fingers away. After a few seconds, Castiel opens his eyes. The world seems hazy, slightly unreal around the edges. The sunlight is just a little too bright, creating a corona around the plants and Pamela’s head, making the colors of the world appear oversaturated. He blinks slowly until Pamela’ face swims back into focus. 

“Consequences. You can have the truth back, but it might cost you something. Maybe you’ll just have some headaches. Maybe they’ll go away after a few days; maybe they’ll be with you for the rest of your life. Maybe you go insane.” 

“Oh, well, if that’s all then.” 

“Don’t get smart with me,” Pamela chides. Her voice sounds far away. “I’m just trying to give you an informed choice.” 

“Do it.” The words don’t sound as though they come from him, but there’s no one else who could have said them. “Whatever you have to do. I want...I have to know.” 

“All right.” Pamela doesn’t sound surprised at his choice. “You want to wait or...?” 

Castiel swallows. “No. Right now is fine.” 

“All right. Relax. And close your eyes. It might be a bumpy ride.” 

Castiel does as she says. The metal frame of the bench is cool against the back of his neck. The sensation provides a grounding force for him, even as Pamela takes his face between her hands. 

“Brace yourself,” she says, just before the world washes out in a flash of white. 

  
  


~*~*~*~*~*


	18. we'll live a long life

~*~*~*~*~*

  
  


Dean was shot, once. 

He was young and stupid and thought he was invincible. He was bolstered by the hubris of being twenty-one and doing the kind of things that most schmucks his age could only dream of while they jerked off. He was nimble and strong enough to jump straight through the glass of a living room, into the house of a rugaru. 

He was stupid enough not to assume that even monsters could defend themselves with human weapons. 

The bullet had torn through the meat of his thigh, leaving trails of fire behind it. The pain had sliced through the core of him, scooping out reason and action. It left only blind animal terror, the hot course of blood down his jeans and his legs, and the gibbering terror of  _ no no please no.  _

Hearing Castiel say  _ “I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced,”  _ is kind of like that. 

It’s a suckerpunch straight to Dean’s throat. For a moment, his lungs and heart forget how to work in tandem, and there’s just the desperate thumping of a muscle too long ignored against the cage of his ribs, while his cheeks turn white. He’s just aware enough to catch Sam’s harsh inhale of surprise and the shocked curve of Gabriel’s mouth, but he only has eyes for Cas. 

Cas’ head tilts to the side. Between the painkillers pumping through his system and the exhaustion turning him sluggish, Cas’ eyes are dull, but Dean can still recognize that look, the cogs in Cas’ mind turning as he tries to fit the pieces together. Cas is  _ brilliant,  _ always has been, and he’s going to solve this, the lightbulb is going to snap on, and then there’s nothing in this world that can keep them apart. 

But Cas just stares at him, politely quizzical turning into frustrated belligerence, the purse of his lips turning pissy instead of confused, and Dean…

Dean storms out of the room. 

He comes to a stop a few doors down, not because he wants to, but more because his legs refuse to carry him any further. He ignores the looks that the nurses give him as they step around him, this man who has collapsed against the wall, fingers twisting in his hair. The bright pain spreads through his scalp, but it can’t distract him from remembering Cas’ confusion or from that damned question repeating in his skull like the worst kind of earworm. 

Sam finds him first, then there’s the shushing sound of Gabriel’s wheels against the tile. Dean doesn’t look up. If he sees Sam’s brand of pity then he might vomit. If he sees pity in Gabriel’s eyes, then he might shatter altogether. 

It’s Gabriel who speaks first, though his voice lacks the smooth, used-car-salesman surety that it usually possesses. “It’s just the meds. He just needs a while for them to wear off, and then he’ll be fine.” He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than the Winchesters and, judging from the quiver in his voice, he’s not doing a good job on either front. 

Dean doesn’t answer. He knows, in his heart, the truth. Cas doesn’t remember him. There was no shred of recognition, no hint of knowing trying to claw its way to the surface. Dean looked at Cas, and it was almost like looking at a stranger. Everything they had, everything they shared… Gone. 

He thinks he might be sick.

Sam is oddly quiet, and it’s not until Gabriel asks, a little accusingly, “Who are you calling?” that Dean stops to wonder why. 

He raises his forehead off of his knees. Sam has the phone to his ear and a pinched, irritated expression on his face as he stares at Gabriel. “I’m calling Bobby,” he says, like Gabriel should have been smart enough to figure that out for himself. “If Cas’ memories are gone, it might be because of something supernatural. In that case, a spell can bring them back, and I don’t know who better to ask than Bobby for help.” 

Listening to his brother, Dean allows a tiny flicker of hope to flare to life in his chest. Hearing Sam say it, it makes so much sense. Of course. Cas was caught in the crossfire of possession and near-death experiences, so it would make sense that he would struggle putting himself back together. 

He grasps the faint straws of hope with an almost manic strength. Sam will call Bobby, and Bobby will know what to do. Bobby will come up with a spell that will restore Cas’ memories, and Dean can  _ finally  _ have everything he ever dreamed about. 

Bobby doesn’t bring a spell, but he does bring Pamela, which might be just as good. Dean watches her enter Cas’ room, and he can barely stop himself from wriggling in anticipation. In just a few minutes, he’ll have Cas back. 

Then Pamela leaves Cas’ room, looking about a decade older, and Dean’s world shatters into so many fine pieces that he knows he’ll never be able to put them back together. 

\---

Pamela is kind when she breaks the truth to them. Cas’ brain has blocked off the memories of his time spent as a ghost. They’re behind a wall, inaccessible to him. The one time he even brushed up against them, he almost sent himself spiraling into madness. Pamela had to use all of her abilities to pull his consciousness out of his own mind before he got lost within the swirling clouds of madness. 

Cas’ memories are lost forever, and the cost of regaining them is far too high to consider. Two options remain: to tell Cas the truth about his missing memories and hope that he doesn’t drive himself insane by trying to regain them, or lie to him and keep him forever ignorant about the missing seven months of his life. 

Surprisingly, it’s Gabriel who argues for telling Cas the truth. 

“I’ve never lied to him a day in my life,” he insists, looking over his shoulder at the closed door of Cas’ hospital room. “I’m not about to start now. Not about  _ this _ .” His eyes are fixed on Dean, leaving no doubt as to what he means. “So you can waffle on and wring your hands, but I’m going back in there and telling him what’s happened over the past six months.” 

“Wait.” All eyes turn to Sam. “You can’t tell him the truth.” 

Gabriel stares at him for a few dozen seconds. It would almost be amusing, like watching a Dachshund stare down a Great Dane, if it weren’t so tense. Gabriel dismisses Sam with a roll of his eyes. “Yeah, the hell I can’t. Out of my way, Gigantor.” 

“No, I’m serious. You heard Pamela. You  _ can’t  _ tell him.” Sam’s hand shoots out and grabs Gabriel above the elbow, jerking him away from the door. 

Gabriel’s upper lip lifts in a snarl as his hand curls into a fist. Before things can take a truly nasty turn, Bobby’s voice cuts through the tension and aggression. “No, damn it all, he’s right.” 

The fight doesn’t disappear out of Gabriel, but it fades enough to save Sam from getting clocked in the jaw. Gabriel turns his glare on Bobby instead. 

“What the hell do you mean?” Dean’s brain finally kicks back online, from where it’s been screaming for the past few minutes, ever since Cas opened his eyes and a stranger looked back at him. “Bobby, what are you talking about?” 

It’s beyond selfish. It’s abhorrent, what Dean wants to do, but he can’t help it. He wants to march into that room and tell Cas the truth so that Cas  _ knows.  _ Cas has to know about them. He has to remember. 

“Look, you heard Pamela. You go in and tell Cas everything that happened in the past six months and you bring that wall tumbling down. You ready to handle what happens next?” Before Dean can contemplate the horrors held in that scenario, Bobby ruthlessly continues. “Or, you go and tell him that he’s missing seven months of his life, but he can’t know what happened or why. Think, boy. You know Cas. Is he  _ really  _ going to be satisfied with an answer like that? Or is he going to hunt and search until he manages to tear that wall in his head to smithereens?” 

Each word hits him like a blow to the gut. Bobby’s right,  _ of course,  _ he’s right. Cas is never going to be satisfied with a half-assed explanation. He’ll tear the world and himself apart to get to the truth. And coming outright and telling him what’s happened… Pamela said that Cas was almost screaming, and that was just from barely brushing up against the wall. What happens when they take a sledgehammer and demolish it? 

Dean entertains the thought of Cas being left a drooling husk, all of his spark and bite vanished, everything that made Cas  _ Cas  _ left in the rubble of his own memories. It makes him want to vomit. A mindless Cas is worse than what’s sitting in the hospital room right now. At least now, Cas still has his formidable intellect and the undefinable spark which draws Dean towards him, like a moth to flame. At least now, he’s still  _ Cas.  _

It’s then that Dean realizes he’s given up on ever having Cas. A small, disjointed part of him examines the moment numbly. He should have known better, from the very beginning. He doesn’t get a happy ending. Cas, _ his _ Cas, the man he fell in love with, the man he dreamed about spending the rest of his life with… That man is gone. In his place is someone who looks the same, who sounds the same, but who can never be what Dean wants, and Dean can’t even tell him what he lost, for fear of unhinging Cas’ mind.

Dean steels himself. He can do this. He can walk into that hospital room and introduce himself as Dean Winchester. He can wriggle his way into hunting with Cas and Gabriel; he can hunt alongside Cas. He already has a clear insight into Cas; there’s no doubt in Dean’s mind that he can easily worm his way into Cas’ good graces. 

But then Dean thinks of the reality of the situation: having to relearn Cas, having to pretend like he hasn’t had the benefit of months of Cas’ company. Having to bite his tongue and pretend like he doesn’t know every intimate detail of Cas, pretending like he doesn’t know the exact timbre and rumble of Cas’ laugh. Having to hide his hurt whenever Cas treats him like a casual acquaintance. Having to watch every word which comes from his mouth for fear of shattering Cas’ wall and bringing deadly memories crashing down upon him. The prospect of living with his guilty if he inadvertently does anything to hurt Cas. 

And what if they’re at a bar and Cas finds someone that he likes? What will he do when Cas decides that he’s tired of sleeping alone? What if… What if Cas’ love is as conditional as his memory and he never sees Dean as anything more than a friend? What if Cas doesn’t even see him as that? Can Dean live, watching Cas fall in love with someone else, watching someone else be the recipient of Cas’ smiles and laughs, knowing  _ exactly  _ how it felt to have all that devotion focused solely on him. Can Dean work day by day beside Cas and  _ not  _ be reminded at every second of what Cas’ voice sounds like when it’s professing love? 

Not for the first time, Dean thinks he might be sick. 

He stands up on legs that are too numb to support him. His first steps are tottering, awkward things, as he learns to navigate this strange world which has yanked Castiel away from him and given him nothing in return. When he opens his mouth, no sound comes out, and it takes a few seconds for his brain to recalibrate in order to form words. 

“Sam, we’re going.” 

The words fall from his mouth like rocks. They taste bitter and sound worse. Sam looks at him in disbelief, his mouth hanging open. “What?” he finally asked. “You’re… You’re leaving?” 

“Not a lot of reasons to stay, are there? Can’t really talk to Cas without worrying about cracking open his noggin, and he doesn’t know any of us from Adam. Anything you, Bobby, or I say to him is going to be weird.” 

_ Please,  _ he doesn’t say.  _ Please, don’t force me to go back in there and look at everything I’ve lost. Please don’t force me to stare at the thing I love most so that I can know how little it meant.  _

But Sam must see some of those words in Dean’s eyes, because he doesn’t argue. Gabriel looks like he wants to offer up a fight, but after another look around the group, he sags in defeat.

“So what the hell am I supposed to tell him? He woke up in a hospital surrounded by doctors. He’s bound to have some questions.” 

Dean barely listens to Bobby’s suggestions. He’s too busy trying to keep his chest from ripping in half. After everything… After the desperate drive to the hospital, with Cas bleeding out in the backseat, and Dean half-conscious in the front seat, too weak and pathetic to do anything to help, while Sam was white-knuckling the Impala’s steering wheel, Dean hadn’t thought anything could be worse. After the hours of pacing the waiting room, terrified that any second now, the doctors were going to come and tell them  _ I’m very sorry, but there was nothing we could do,  _ Dean thought he’d reached the pinnacle of suffering. After months of yearning, finally seeing a thin shred of hope at the end of the seemingly eternal tunnel, and now… 

Dean leans over, his hands on his knees, as he tries to catch his breath. What is he supposed to do? He pinned all of his hopes and dreams on this one specific moment: the moment when Cas would wake up, see him, and smile. Then his life could begin for real. Then he would know what it was like to be truly alive. 

Instead, Cas shattered that dream with a simple question. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

  
  


**two months later**

The motel door creaks open, revealing a room that looks exactly like the dozens of other rooms Dean’s inhabited in the past months. He sighs before he flicks on the light. Dim yellow glows out from an ‘80s-reject lamp, revealing a carpet with suspicious stains in the corner and a double bed that has definitely seen better days. 

Dean tosses his bag onto the musty, paisley bedspread, where it bounces with a pathetic little thud. He scrubs at his face, bits of dried blood and mud flaking off underneath his fingernails. He needs a shower, but more than that, he needs a damn break. For the past three months, he’s done nothing but hunt. 

The shower is lukewarm and the washcloth is rough. It stings the scrapes and sore places along his body, making him hiss in discomfort. Greyish, pink-tinged water sluices off his body, swirling down the drain. 

When he’s as clean as he’s going to get, Dean wraps a towel around his waist and flops down on the bed. The mattress creaks alarmingly under his weight, but it settles after a moment. Acting almost on autopilot, Dean reaches for his laptop. He scans through his favorite websites, looking for suspicious headlines that might mean a case. 

There’s a few that look promising — a possible ghoul case, maybe a salt and a burn, a few disappearances that could mean vampires — but whenever he thinks about investigating further, he’s overcome with a wave of exhaustion so profound, it threatens to knock him out. He’s heartsore, irritated, but more than anything else, he’s  _ exhausted.  _ He wants nothing more than to sleep for several hours. Several weeks, really. 

His phone buzzes with a message. It might be from Bobby. It might be from Sam. Those are the only people who talk to him these days. Dad’s ignored every message he’s left. This time, instead of neglect, his silence has the distinct flavor of disapproval. Dean knew, when he chose Cas over Dad, he was burning a bridge. He just didn’t realize that he might never have a chance to rebuild it. 

His phone buzzes again. There’s something nagging and insistent in the sound. Dean frowns when he sees Sam’s name flashing at him across the screen. He’s thrilled that they’re talking again, properly this time, but right now, he can’t stomach another conversation where Sam tells him about his life and asks, with thinly veiled pity, how Dean’s been holding up. Hearing about how amazing Sam is doing — acing his classes, thinking about law school interviews, moving in with a pre-med student named Jess — just brings home how not amazing Dean’s life is turning out. 

There was a time where Gabriel would send him updates. They were sporadic in nature, and never really gave Dean any juicy information, but it was  _ something _ . Gabriel would tell him simple things: Castiel has started jogging. Castiel burned breakfast. Castiel has developed a strange fondness for the medical show  _ Dr. Sexy, M.D.  _

After that last one, Dean told Gabriel, in no uncertain terms, to leave him off the mailing list. It was too painful to listen to updates about Cas’ life, all the while knowing there was no place for him there.

  
Dean turns over onto his stomach and muffles his groan into the pillow. The phone rings again, this time with a call. Dean surrenders. He gropes for his phone and brings it to his ear. 

“What?” he snaps. 

“Oh, so you’re going to stop ignoring me?” Sam’s voice is entirely too smug for Dean’s liking. 

“You know, after three dismissed calls, you think you’d take the hint and leave me the hell alone.” 

“You’re not that lucky. It takes more than that to get rid of me.” Sam sighs. The sound is resigned. “I just wanted to check in and see how you’re doing.” 

“Swell. Good talk.” 

“Dean, seriously.” 

Sam’s voice turns the particular shade of somber and empathetic that Dean hates. It sounds like he’s about to take a starring role on Dr. Phil. Dean waits to see if he can maybe get Sam to switch topics, but Sam is a bulldog when he’s got his mind set on something. There’s something tenacious about Sam’s silence. Dean tries to outlast him, but he breaks first, to no one’s surprise. 

“Seriously. I’m fine. Wrapped up a salt and burn earlier today, and I’m thinking about getting a little R&R over the next couple of days. Know of anything good to do in…” Dean quickly checks the address of the motel, “Pray, Montana?”

“Aren’t they thinking of opening a new Disneyland there?” 

“Yeah, coming to this side of Buttfuck, Nowhere in the year 2143.” 

He’d die before admitting it, but the longer he talks to Sam, the more tension ebbs out of his body. Dean gets up from the bed and shrugs into a pair of boxers and a t-shirt before sliding underneath the blankets. 

“How’s Jess?” he asks. The slice of pain cuts through him, same as it always does, when he considers that Sam has everything he ever wanted, right in front of him, but this time, he thinks he can handle it. 

“She’s good. Her study group is working late at the library.” Sam pauses, clearly mulling something over. “You know, it’d be nice if you could come up and meet her.” 

Something cracks open in Dean, but it’s a clean break — the kind that heals back stronger than before. “Yeah,” he gets out, around the lump in his throat. “Yeah, that sounds good. I could be headed out to Cali in the next couple of weeks.” 

“That’s good. I think you’ll really like Jess.” 

There’s something almost shy about Sam’s voice. Dean understands. Short of Bobby, Dean is the closest thing Sam has to a father. Introducing Jess to him is Sam’s version of bringing her home to meet the parents. 

“I don’t know,” he says, in an attempt to lighten the mood. “I think she might be a little brain-damaged. I mean, there has to be something wrong with her if she’s going to pick  _ your  _ super-sized ass. Did she lose a bet or something?” 

“You know what? You’re a jerk.” 

“Bitch.”

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Contrary to what he told Sam, Dean has no intention of taking a vacation in Pray, Montana. It embodies all of his least favorite aspects of small midwestern towns, with its dusty Main Street and very little nightlife to speak of. The people of Pray, Montana are just as worn and weatherbeaten as the buildings. Dean flees in the morning. 

He’s halfway down the road to nowhere when Bobby calls. On reflex, Dean answers the call, though Bobby’s first words have him wishing that he’d let it ring to voicemail. 

“Got a ghoul hunt for you in Stillwater, Oklahoma, if you’re anywhere in the neighborhood,” Bobby says, without even a hello to ease into the conversation. 

Dean doesn’t bother to hold back his groan. “Come on, Bobby, I’ve been working for two months straight. All work and no play makes Dean blow his fucking brains out.” 

“Stop being melodramatic. Look, I’ve got a hunter already there who specifically requested you. Now get your head out of your butt and get your ass down to Stillwater. It’s a big nest, and he could really use your help.”

If there’s anything Dean wants less than a ghoul hunt, it’s a ghoul hunt with a groupie. He’ll concede to the hunt, since he knows Bobby won’t leave him alone until he does, but like hell he’s going to make this into a team sport. 

“How you doing?” Bobby asks, after Dean begrudgingly agrees to drive to Stillwater. 

“What are you, my grandma? I’m fine.” 

“You know, if you wanted to take a break for a bit, I’ve got work up here. I was thinking about doing an add-on to the basement, and I wouldn’t say no to an extra pair of hands.”

“What, now you’re throwing me pity work? Bobby, I said I’m fine. When I need a break, I’ll take a break.” 

“All right.” Bobby doesn’t sound convinced, but thankfully, he lets the subject drop. “Give me a call when you get there, and I’ll give you that hunter’s number. More protection in groups and all that junk.” 

“Ah, thanks for the babysitter.”

“You’re a cranky son of a bitch, you know that?”

“Yeah, well, takes one to know one,” Dean snaps back. He’s not nearly as irritated as he sounds, though he’s not feeling entirely warm and fuzzy. “Whatever, old man. I’ll give you a call when the job’s done.” 

“Yeah, you do that. Idjit.” With those parting words, Bobby hangs up, and Dean starts the long drive to Oklahoma.

\---

Ghouls aren’t known for being particularly subtle. They leave empty graves behind like candy wrappers, which is an easy trail to follow. 

Dean arrives in Stillwater in the late morning. By the evening, he’s already tracked down probable locations for the ghouls. 

So much for good things about ghouls. 

The bad thing about ghouls is that they’re like roaches. There’s never just one, and there’s usually a lot more than two. Dean banked on three. 

There’s five. 

He gets the drop on them, which means he manages to blow one away before the others can react. It’s good, but not good enough. There’s still four of them and one of him, and these ghouls, for all the graves they’ve been robbing, are apparently hungry enough to be quick and mean. Dean fights, but in short order, they snatch his shotgun away from him. 

He grunts in pain as they lash his arms behind him. The cord bites into the skin around his wrists, much too tight for comfort. Dean squirms and thrashes until the cords start to cut into his skin. Blood runs down his wrists, but he makes no dent in the bindings. He forces a smirk onto his face, sneering up at the ghouls eyeing him like a particularly tasty sirloin. “Look, if you guys are into the kinky stuff, shouldn’t we have a safeword or something?” 

He gets a slap to the back of his head for his trouble, and, to add insult to injury, a filthy rag stuffed into his mouth. He fights back his gag reflex, knowing it’ll be worse for him if he barfs. 

“It’s been a while since we’ve had fresh meat,” one of the ghouls coos, leaning down close to him. She licks a long stripe up his neck, sighing salaciously as she pulls away. “I can’t wait to sink my teeth into you. Tender.” 

Dean retches in disgust as her hands creep down past the collar of his shirt and stroke over the skin on his chest.  _ Hands off the merchandise,  _ he tries to say, but the words come out a garbled mess. 

The female ghoul looks at the rest of her comrades. Her eyes glisten unnaturally as she licks her lips. “Should we bother to carve him up or just eat from the buffet?” 

A hard push sends Dean sprawling onto his back. He kicks out, but his legs are easily restrained. He howls as his shirt is pulled up, revealing his soft stomach. Short of a miracle, there’s no way he’s getting out of this. 

_ Fuck, he should have stayed with Cas. What did it matter if Cas didn’t know who he was? He could have lived with that. Maybe he could have even gotten Cas to fall in love with him again. Weirder things have happened, and after all, he already had a leg up by knowing every single thing Cas hates and loves. He just wants to see Cas again one more time before he dies, wants to help Bobby out with his stupid weekend project, wants to meet Jess and give Sam a hard time and kiss Cas’ stupid face— _

The shotgun blast threatens to shatter his eardrums. Dean sputters in disbelief as gore and viscera splatter his face. He curls up as best he can as the air explodes around him once more. He works furiously at the cord binding his wrists, chafing the skin to the point of bleeding as he tries to free himself. 

He manages to break free just as the fourth and final blast echoes through the room. He yanks the gag out of his mouth, spitting to clear the foul taste from his tongue. Shaking, he looks around at the four headless corpses. That was close; a hell of a lot closer than he likes his calls to be. Bobby’s hunter buddy must have been closer than he thought. 

Dean looks up to give his thanks. The words wither on his tongue. 

Cas looks down at him with an expression of mild concern. A shotgun is cradled in the crook of his arm, and a few flecks of blood dot his knuckles. Dean focuses on those small marks of life, his heart jumping in his chest at the sight. Somehow, those tiny little spatters seem like the world’s biggest miracle to him. 

Dean knows he’s staring, but he can’t help. He’s hungry for every aspect of Cas’ appearance. The clothes are the first difference he notices. He got so used to seeing Cas in the same combination of leather jacket, jeans, and boots that anything else seems incongruous, but there he is, dressed in a thick canvas jacket with a different pair of boots and jeans. Cas’ hair is still the same mess it always was, like he’s spent hours running his fingers through it or he just never bothered to introduce it to a comb. But Cas’ face… The structure is still the same, the sharp jaw with stubble stubbornly clinging to his cheeks, the prominent cheekbones and haughty tilt. His eyes, though. are shadowed, somehow less brilliant than before. Dark circles rest underneath them, like someone pressed careful bruises into Cas’ skin. Cas looks haggard and worn in a way he never did while he was a ghost. 

They stare at each other for a few more seconds, long after the point of polite interaction has passed. It’s only when Cas tilts his head to the side, in a gesture so poignantly familiar that Dean can’t help but embrace it, that he breaks. 

“Cas?” he finally dares to whisper, his voice coming out weak and quavering. He swallows, hoping that the gesture will delay the moment when his frantic heart decides to jump out of his chest. “Castiel?”

Cas’ head tilts further to the side. His eyes narrow. Dean watches every minute shift in his expression, the deepening of the crow’s feet around his eyes, the slight purse of his lips. Each change presses against the already fragile fault-lines of his heart, until he feels the pieces shattering. There’s nothing left of him, nothing but his longing and yearning, nothing but the desperate hope that  _ maybe  _ there’s something in Cas that remembers him. 

Cas opens his mouth. Dean’s heart kicks in his chest, unruly and untamed, at the sound of that deep voice. He’s made so breathless by the wonder of it that it takes him a second to make sense of the words. 

“Going after a nest of ghouls by yourself? You’re a fucking idiot.” 

A tiny smile cracks across Castiel’s face. It splinters the harsh, stoic lines of his face. The facade of the stranger falls away, leaving nothing behind but  _ Cas.  _

Dean stares into Cas’ face and feels the world click into place around him once more, like gears finally catching and turning as intended. Warmth bleeds into him, flooding his empty places until it spills over. 

Cas’ smile widens. His chest heaves in a deep breath. “Hello, Dean,” he finally says. 

Those familiar words unleash something in him. Dean scrambles to his feet, scraping the palms of his hands raw against the ground. He’s trembling and shaking, small hurt-animal noises spilling from his throat as he stands. Huge shivers shake through his body, so massive that his teeth clatter together. He grips at his elbows, clutching the soft fabric of his flannel as a way to keep sane. 

“Cas?” he rasps. His voice comes out as little more than an ungainly croak. “Cas, is that… I mean, do you…” 

He can’t bring himself to finish his question.  _ Is that you? Do you remember me?  _

Cas takes one step forward. Then another. He’s so close. Close enough for Dean to hear the sound of Cas’ breathing, to feel the heat of Cas’ body spread to his own. Dean’s heart jumps into his throat. He can’t breathe around it, can’t look anywhere except for Cas’ face. 

At his side, Cas’ hand twitches forward. 

Dean’s eyes are fixed on that tiny movement. His whole life seems to hinge upon it. 

He stops breathing as Cas lifts his hand. After months of yearning, hoping, despairing, he’s finally going to… He’ll finally get to… 

Cas’ hand settles against his cheek. 

It’s so  _ warm.  _ A sob catches in Dean’s throat as heat blazes through him, lighting him up from the inside. He pushes his cheek into Cas’ hand, shaking at the resistance pushing back at him. Cas’ hand is huge against his face, his fingers long and elegant. There are calluses against the heel of his thumb and on his fingertips, evidence of a life lived hard. Cas’ thumbnail is ragged, the edges catching almost painfully on Dean’s skin. 

Helpless whimpers tumble from Dean’s lips. He’s overcome, his every molecule screaming in ecstasy. He’s undone, unmade, from nothing more than the feel of Cas’ hand against his skin. 

“Cas,” he sighs, just before his knees buckle. 

Strong arms wrap around his shoulders and hold him upright. Dean sags into Cas, his mind reeling at the feel of firm, solid flesh pressed up against him. Every time he shifts, he can  _ feel —  _ the fabric of a shirt, the brush of a hand, the shift of muscle. Cas is  _ there,  _ Cas is  _ present.  _

“I’m here,” Cas murmurs. Dean realizes he said the last part aloud. “Dean, I’m so sorry, but I’m here now. I’m here.” 

“You… You remember?” Dean croaks. He turns his head further into Cas’ chest, terrified that he’ll look up and not recognize the person looking back at him. 

Cas’ hand cups his jaw, turning his face upward with gentle pressure. Gravity ceases to exist as Dean tumbles into Cas’ eyes, the deep blue drawing him in until that’s all he can see. Cas’ fingertips trace whisper-soft over Dean’s cheeks, down to his chin and the bolt of his jaw. 

Dean helplessly falls into Cas, his mouth parting in a delighted sigh. Kissing Cas is… It’s his sweetest dream and his darkest desire. It’s a thousand sunrises and sunsets folded into a single press of lips. It’s the first vampire he beheaded, the first time he sat behind the wheel of the Impala, the warmth and sugar of a perfect piece of pie spreading slow and sweet over his tongue. 

It’s  _ Cas.  _

Dean only pulls away from the kiss when the burning in his lungs becomes too much to ignore. His hands still tug at Cas’ elbows and waist, yanking him closer. His brain can’t wrap around the truth his fingers are busy discovering: Cas is solid and wholly  _ real. _

Dean licks his lips and tastes salt. It’s only then that he realizes he’s crying, fat tears leaking out from the corners of his eyes and down his chin. He leans his forehead against Cas’, shaking with the force of his breaths. 

“I remember everything,” Cas whispers. His fingers run through Dean’s hair as he cradles the curve of his skull in the palm of his large hand. “Dean, I’m so sorry. I’m so—” Cas’ voice cracks, and with it, Dean’s heart. “I never wanted to hurt you. I never wanted to leave, you have to believe me, I would never—”

Dean kisses him again. Partly because he wants to shut Cas up and partly because he  _ needs  _ to feel Cas against him. Cas stiffens in surprise at the first touch of Dean’s lips, but then melts into him, his fingers twisting in the short strands of Dean’s hair. 

Dean tilts his head and is just about to show exactly how much he missed Cas when two puzzle pieces click into place, with a clarity so brilliant that it almost makes him bite down on Cas’ lip. He yanks away, ignoring Cas’ complaining whine. 

“You bastard,” he breathes, his eyes wide in appreciation and disbelief both. “You’re Bobby’s hunter?” Castiel’s forehead furrows in confusion, and Dean hastens to explain, though a slow burning fuse has been lit inside him. “Bobby called me about this hunt, and he said that there was another hunter here, someone who had asked specifically for me. I thought it was just a groupie, but it was you, wasn’t it?” 

His heart twists at Castiel’s slow nod. “Cas, why? Why wouldn’t you…”

“I didn’t want him to tell you it was me in case you didn’t want to see me,” Cas whispers. His eyes are clouded. When he tries to look away, Dean has to hook his fingers underneath his chin to bring his gaze back to him. “I know it was dishonest, but I couldn’t bear the thought of you saying no; I had to see you, even if you told me to leave-” 

Dean kisses him. Later, he’ll tell Cas, in exquisite detail, exactly why the idea that he wouldn’t want to see Cas is so ridiculously stupid, but for now, all he can do is enjoy the warmth of Cas’ lips against his. Cas kisses him back with a desperate fervor, his hands pulling Dean closer, as a soft sob escapes his lips. 

“Stay,” Dean pants, his breath coming out hot and moist between them. Cas’ eyes are overbright and glistening. Dean realizes, with a gut punch of surprise, that Cas is crying too. His hand shakes as he cups the back of Dean’s neck. 

“Stay,” Dean repeats between kisses. 

“Stay,” Dean breathes as Cas’ arms wrap around him and pull him close. 

“Stay,” Dean prays, tucking his face into the crook of Cas’ neck. He smells like sweat and soap, a hint of deodorant and detergent. His skin is warm and slightly tacky with half-dried sweat. Dean adores these little details, these tiny marks of life. 

“Stay,” Dean asks, staring into Cas’ eyes. 

Cas nods, his mouth working around words he can’t say. Finally, his mouth parts around the only word that matters. “Always.” 

Dean shudders and buries his face into Cas’ shoulder. He clutches Cas closer to him until they’re pressed together from shoulder to knees. 

He doesn’t let go. 

**_el fin._ **

~*~*~*~*~*~*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a wild ride writing this. I'm so glad that I get to share it with you all. This one is pretty near and dear to my heart, so I can only hope reading it was as pleasurable as writing it. 
> 
> Once again, I'd like to thank my artist [CrzyDemona](https://crzydemona.tumblr.com/)  
>  and my beta [FriendofCarlotta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendofCarlotta). Please check them out and drop some love on them because they most certainly deserve it. 
> 
> If you liked this, you can always check out my other fics and subscribe to get more. <3 You can also check me out on tumblr at [dothwrites](https://dothwrites.tumblr.com/). I muse, I write, I make funny jokes. 
> 
> Till next time loves.


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